Give Up The Ghost (In Your Arms)
by whenwinterfell
Summary: In a bid of unspeakable luck Dacey Mormont and the Smalljon survive Walder Frey's massacre and find each other again, alive to tell the tale. Then a local girl comes to the house where they are recovering from their wounds, who has an interesting tale to tell herself ...
1. Chapter 1

**DACEY**

The day the girl came to the keep Dacey Mormont of Bear Island was keeping vigil at Smalljon's makeshift bed, looking for traces of recovery, for signs of life – wanting, _needing_ to be there when he would finally open his eyes. She was still suffering from her own wounds, but compared to the state Smalljon was in, she deemed her situation bearable and stubbornly chose to watch over the man who had survived the massacre with her, the only man who connected to her life before it had all dramatically changed.

In order for her wounds to heal faster the Maester kept telling her she needed her rest, sleep as long as she could, but every day Dacey tried to stay _awake_ for as long as she could. She was not about to let anyone in on it but she was scared of the nightmares that would certainly haunt her the minute she closed her eyes, the images she knew that could never be erased from her mind's eye ever again; the unspeakable horror Walder Frey had brought upon the North by dishonouring the laws of hospitality, the guest right, so ruthlessly and viciously and _completely_…

…staring down at Smalljon, pale and wrecked by fever on his straw mattress, she thought of how he had been riddled with arrows as she dragged him to the window, how her own wounds made it almost impossible for her to heft his massive body up and across the sill after she had smashed the glass with the nearest heavy object. She had looked down at the river, the water churning as the weather had turned stormy and foul, Smalljon muttering curses in his delirious state before she hauled him up higher, pushing him past the wooden post, praying to the gods he would survive his fall. Turning on her heels, scrambling to grab an oak chair to use as a shield, she quickly scanned the hall to see if there was anything left that she could do for Robb, who had taken so many bolts he must lay dying somewhere, bleeding to death. She tried to find that place again where she'd seen him but couldn't get to as his Kingsguard had been attacked and spread out – not to mention disarmed at the door. One of Smalljon's last actions before too many Freys had started their full-on attack on him was slamming a table over the King, protecting him as much as possible from the onslaught of arrows coming from the music gallery, then being fought back towards her where she stood screaming both his and her King's name at the top of her lungs. He made it until they were mere yards apart and as something – she wasn't certain what – distracted the men he had been trying to fight off, he collapsed on the slate floor, his face contorted in pain and anger and horror and more pain, his begging eyes burning into hers. In a split-second she realised the window behind her was to be his only possible escape, if only he would survive the fall and the water and the terrifying amount of arrows that was still being fired at the both of them, so she grabbed a brazier with gloved hands, burning them nonetheless as she smashed the window, not feeling any of it as she next sunk her fingers in the collar of Smalljon's hauberk, pushing and pulling for as long as it took to hoist him up and over the edge. Turning around, she realised what it was that had distracted Smalljon's attackers mere seconds before and it tore a scream from her lungs as she saw Grey Wind on top of the trestle table that Smalljon had used in his last ditch attempt at protecting the King. His muzzle bloodied from tearing at anyone who would come too close the animal was ruthlessly ripping through limbs and throats at a furious pace, even though a number of bolts were already lodged in his massive body, something the direwolf did not seem to notice. Shocked by the unexpectedness of finding him still alive, she watched in agony how Robb was trying to get to his knees, his eyes glazed and glued to the sight of his dying mother on the floor next to him, bleeding copiously from the gaping wound of her slit throat, life slipping away from her with every heartbeat pounding in Dacey's chest. She found herself screaming again, her King's name, her friend's name, the name of the boy she met in Winterfell when they were younger (a world away) who always smiled at her in utter admiration for her being a warrior and a woman and a she-bear, who couldn't talk to her or share a meal with her for blushing a bright crimson well into the linen collar of his tunic, an even match with his russet curls; the boy who became a King forever hers to defend. She couldn't even reach him now, could do nothing for him – she, his sworn guard, who should die trying to protect him. There were too many arrows and too many Freys between her and her King, though (they had her effectively cornered) and the only thing she could do was get him to see the shattered glass behind her and make him realise it could be his way out. Yet, Robb never looked at her as he was virtually paralysed by the vision of his lady mother dying right there in front of him without a single thing he could do to make it stop, the pool of her blood ever expanding, reaching his hands, his knees, his boots. Amazingly, he made it to his feet, slamming hip first into the table as another bolt hit him square in the chest, his mouth forming words Dacey couldn't hear nor make out, and then it was Grey Wind's teeth in the leather of his vest, jumping down, pulling Robb down with him and Dacey felt the icy finality of a blade in her shoulder and she had to look away, twisting around to slam the chair she'd been holding in her opponent's face and go for the window herself…

It was Smalljon's pained groan that made her snap out of the memory that played in her head every waking moment of the day. The sounds and the smells were so vivid that she wondered how it could have been more than four weeks ago, when it still felt as if it had happened yesterday, this desecration she was unable to wrap her head around. Looking down, though, her heart jumped as she stared into her patient's eyes – exhausted eyes, yes; but open and alert nonetheless.

"Jon," she breathed, wondering if she'd ever felt this grateful in her life before and smiled at him, reaching already for a cup to fill. "You're awake."

She watched him search the room, survival instinct kicking in right away, trying to ascertain where he was and if it was safe and she rested her hand on his shoulder, smiling at him. "It's fine," she said. "We're safe here. Easy, now." She felt his body relax under her palm and poured water into his cup, just a little bit, reaching for the back of his head as she placed it at his lips.

"We're miles from the Twins," she whispered as he tried to swallow, a trickle running down his chin and into his rugged beard. "There's a Maester here who saved your life, and the family here have told me they'd rather swear to House Stark than Lannister."

Smalljon frowned, tried to say something but couldn't and Dacey smiled again. "Don't worry," she said, setting the cup down. "I wasn't holding them at sword point when they told me, and they turned a Frey search party away just days ago." Standing up she moved to the only window in the room and peeked past the drawn curtains. "They're hiding us, Jon. I think they can be trusted. And it's not quite as if we have a choice." She turned back to face him. "I have secured a sword, though," and she patted the pommel of the broadsword tied to her hip, choosing not to tell him she was too weak yet to wield it properly. "And I still have my dagger."

They stared at each other in the dusky light of the room, both of them doubtlessly reliving the same terrifying memory.

"The King?" Smalljon asked finally, his voice nothing but a scratchy grunt, and Dacey felt her heart swell when she realised Smalljon used the title and not the name, both of them kingsguards to the last.

"I don't know," she muttered honestly, a stab of guilt spiking through her, wishing she'd been able to save Robb, or at least see if he could possibly have survived. "I couldn't get to him anymore. I keep thinking I should have died there as well."

She returned to the bed and sat down to tell him what had happened, grinning nervously at his disbelief when she described how she had literally pushed him out of a window and into the Trident. Then she told him of Grey Wind and how Robb's trusted direwolf had somehow, miraculously, made it into the great hall, fighting furiously to defend his master, and how he had pulled Robb down by the collar with his teeth before she had no other option but to turn around and save herself by jumping out of the shattered window, hoping she would survive the angry current below her, hoping she would ultimately wash up on the river banks well out of the Freys' reach, hoping she would live to tell this tale and avenge every last of the deaths she had just witnessed.

The short knock on the door was what brought them back from the horrid images in both of their minds, and Dacey moved to unlatch the door, allowing the Maester in. He was a big man named Ellard, the chain around his neck appearing much smaller because of his stature, and she dipped her head as he passed her into the room, bringing fresh bandages and medicine. She could tell he was pleased to see Smalljon's eyes open and bright as he sat down in Dacey's place to check the wounds.

"You'll be next," he muttered as he worked, jerking his chin in Dacey's direction. "You'll be in this bed if you're not more careful." She shrugged, trying to ignore the truth behind his words as well as the slow-burning fever that was preventing her from gaining the necessary strength every day. Now that Jon was awake she felt a little more secure, though, and maybe she would take the Maester's advice and get some rest. Or maybe not.

"They tried to massacre us," she muttered, surprising herself with her words, always the one to keep her opinion to herself, to bottle things up. "They _did_ massacre us, so many of my brothers in arms were slain before my eyes. I watched my King's own _mother_ die and all of this after we had shared bread and salt, thinking we were safe. I understand you worry about my health, but with Smalljon in this state _someone_ has to remain watchful and _out _of bed. We are in Frey territory and we are _not_ safe." She shuddered through a deep breath, causing both the Maester and Smalljon to look up at her. Dipping her head again, she allowed Maester Ellard to tend to the wounds further down Jon's body by stepping out of the room, closing the door and standing guard.

It was a small keep they had stumbled upon, situated close to the Trident's Green Fork, called Wilford. She had struggled out of the water herself, the underwater plants ensnaring her legs as she tried to kick to the banks, and to this day she still wondered which of the gods had been on her side as she had limped along the riverbanks, bleeding from multiple wounds and searching for a place to hide, when she finally happened on the small but strong, stone building. The people in the keep had taken her in without question, had tended to her wounds and, when her fever had broken, told her they had found another Northerner with identical arrow-wounds that they were trying to keep alive in an adjacent room. They told her of the news that had trickled in about the carnage at the Twins and they assured her they would not turn them in, appalled as they were by the unthinkable violations the Freys had committed.

"We belong to a Frey bannerman," Gerad, the head of the keep's small family told her one night, a deep frown on his face as he sat by her bedside. "But we know what Walder Frey did, no matter what stories they try to feed us now. The Young Wolf fought a just cause and I am shamed to the core his army was betrayed so completely. If there was any way I could change fealty I would, but for now harbouring Stark fugitives will have to do."

She shifted her position in front of Smalljon's chamber door, rubbing an absent hand over the spot where the wound to her shoulder hurt the most and her eyes went out of focus again. She remembered the first time she asked Gerad if he knew anything about King Robb, if any word had gotten out about the Young Wolf's fate, but the kind old man had no answer for her, looking at her with a hundred questions burning on his lips yet never asking a single one of them. He promised her he would try and find out, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings about the matter, clearly not believing for a single moment Robb Stark would have escaped Walder Frey's abomination.

For the past five weeks, Gerad never had an answer to the one question she needed answering, and so her sleep remained filled with visions of bloodshed, of her King riddled with arrows struggling to his feet, of Lady Catelyn drowning in an ever-expanding sea of blood and of Bear island where her sisters mourned her death.


	2. Chapter 2

**MEERYA**

It had been quite a coincidence, Meerya thought, looking back on the afternoon when she had found him.

Usually, she never prowled the riverbanks as far as she had that day because there just wasn't a whole lot of food to be found; yet this time she had come up dreadfully short in the fields and woods around her house. Of course, it couldn't actually be called a house anymore after the wolves and the lions had chosen parts of the area to stage some of their worst battles on. Amidst the chaos their house had burnt almost to the ground but for a small part that miraculously survived, consisting of four barely preserved rooms where she lived with her father, her two brothers and her younger sister. Most of the people that inhabited the area had either died or fled and with them the chance to trade food and clothes – anything really to make sure they would survive the cold that was by now steadily drifting in from the North. Her family had not been able to leave, though, not with her father wounded and weakened from the fire that had ravaged their house and lands, and so they tried their best to hunt for food, be it the occasional bit of game that her brothers would shoot with their bows and arrows, their quivers steadily emptying as time went by, or fish from the river, or anything else that was edible and possible for them to lay their hands on.

She would be the one to have her sister Liya in tow, now that their mother was no longer around and their father too weak to be of any use to anyone, but as the little girl was afraid of the vast amounts of water the river carried, she had decided to scour the banks on her own and send her sister back to the house with her brothers who had just reappeared from the woods.

At first, she thought she had stumbled upon yet another corpse washed ashore by the river even though the number of dead bodies had significantly decreased over the past few weeks. When she had come closer to examine the man lying between the reeds, his legs still in the frothing water, she noticed somehow that his chest was still rising and falling with each erratic, laboured breath of air he took. From what she could see at first glance, there were at least five broken arrows sticking out of his body. His heavy leather clothes were stained with the remnants of what must be his own blood, and his face was an ugly mess of wounds and scrapes undoubtedly caused by the same people who'd loosed their arrows at him.

She had tried to haul him out of the water herself, but he was a big, heavy man and his drenched clothes and boots seriously weighed him down so she had to abandon the attempt. She decided to warn her father and asked her brothers to bring the man into the house so that she could at least make him comfortable in the last moments of his life.

That he had made it through the first week, though, was entirely beyond her comprehension, as he bled copiously after she removed the ragged arrowheads from his body; leaving her to stitch up the gaping wounds as fast and as best as she could with what little means she had at her disposal. She had cleaned him as best she could, taking off his leather tunic, finding rich linens underneath, his breeches and boots stained by the water that had dragged him downstream but of still clearly expensive make. It had been strange to strip him of every last stitch of his ruined clothing; his naked body wretched and doomed under her trembling hands. Her brother's smallclothes fit him well enough after the bleeding had finally stopped and she made sure the blankets on top kept him warm. Yet only after her father had offered the fur from his bed, the only one her family possessed these days, to cover him with as well, did she notice how her fever-wracked patient finally stopped shaking.

She had discovered cruel, purple bite marks in his neck that stunned her beyond belief, as they were of such size that she asked herself what creature could possibly have sunk its teeth into the man's skin. On closer inspection she found the same, deeper marks in the neckline of the heavy leather tunic; the holes the giant teeth had left behind loose and frayed, and she realised that whatever had bitten him had dragged him along as well.

He wasn't as old as she first assumed either after she had cleaned the wounds in his face and neck; giving him no more than sixteen or seventeen years. He'd probably be scarred for the rest of his life, but she could tell he had been handsome before the attack. His jaw was square, his cheekbones high, and he had a full head of reddish curls. She had waited until the worst of the cuts and scrapes that disfigured his face had closed before she set about the delicate task of removing his beard, anything to abate the fever, noticing she was probably right when she thought he couldn't be much older than she was herself.

Her brothers had eyed him suspiciously as she tended to his wounds, gauging the quality of his clothes, searching for any sign that might give away who he was or where he was from. Her eldest brother Maaric had stood with the heavy leather garment in his hands, sliding a finger across the fabric while deep in thought, and had then stared at her patient for the longest time. He told her about the rumours that had filtered through of a massacre having taken place at the Twins, the enormous Frey Keep many miles further upstream, where Edmure Tully of Riverrun had married Walder Frey's daughter Roslin. King Robb Stark's massive army had been quartered around the castle for the duration of the festivities but had apparently been betrayed and attacked by Walder Frey's army within the halls, thereby breaching every possible law of hospitality and safe passing. What had become of the northerners or their King, the stories had not yet disclosed, but Meerya was quite certain that somehow more news of the abomination would ultimately travel to even their obscure little corner of Westeros.

"He's a Northman," was all Maaric had said at the end of that first week, before leaving her to continue her vigil by the side of the wounded man's bed.

Now Meerya pushed the heavy curtain out of the way, stepping into the room that smelt of sweat and blood and death. She had tended to her father in this room, who'd been lying on the same bed, staring up at the same blackened ceiling, and – even though he was frail – had made it as she had fought to keep him alive. Sitting down, placing the basket of fresh bandages in her lap, she looked down at this man that she didn't know, not his name or his age or even the colour of his eyes, and found herself mumbling the same vow that she had muttered when her father had been fighting for his life. It was a vow that she had whispered so many times since she'd begun tending him – that he would keep breathing and heal and pull through and live, not merely because she wanted to know who he was but because she had seen too much death and despair to last her a lifetime.

Carefully unwrapping the bandages and looking at the state the wounds were in, though, caused her stomach to drop. Not one of them had fully closed yet and the stitching was messy at best. Her only experience with tending to the sick and dying had been her own father and he had suffered burns; many of them, yes – but of a rather superficial nature as her brothers had been able to pull him out of their burning house much faster than they had their mother. Meerya found she was not prepared, really, for these deep, ghastly, gaping holes caused by arrows that had obviously been shot from too close a range, as her second brother had been kind enough to explain.

"Shot by a traitor's weapon in a traitor's hands," Merell had observed the day they brought him in, dipping his chin at the bed. "He will be dead soon." Whether it was from exhaustion or the ever-present hunger or something else she didn't know, but once Merell had left the room after his ominous words, she could not keep herself from crying for her stranger's fate.

"This doesn't look good…" she muttered into the silence of the room. "Why aren't these closing up?" She dabbed at the moist edges, purple and black, checking the stitches, reapplying fresh bandages, covering the whole nasty wound up again. The sight and smell of the wounds made her realise she could no longer push the notion aside anymore: she needed help. Her patient had lived for so much longer than anyone – including herself – had wanted to bet on, she couldn't abandon him now.

A Maester lived at a small keep not twenty miles away, but after broaching the subject, there was no one in the household willing to seek him out, hard-pressed as they were to survive the barren land and the increasingly colder weather themselves. Yet, with the passing of each day in which the stranger kept stubbornly drawing breath but not healing in the way she had hoped he would, she knew she had to go and find this Maester herself, or allow him to die like her brothers predicted he would – before the month was out.

After all the effort she had put her patient and herself through it was a consequence she found herself unwilling to face. Her daily chores she had carried out without a single complaint, her sister remaining in her care as well and not suffering from lack of attention, and every other free moment of her time she had sat with the stranger, watching his ugly, yet somehow still oddly handsome face, cleaning and redressing his wounds diligently, listening for any sounds coming from his mouth. She had spent weeks wiping his feverish brow, washing those parts of his body that had survived unscarred, clothing him as far as she could manage, trying to get him to swallow a little water by wetting his lips and talking to him to let him know at least someone was around who cared for him even though he never responded in any way; hadn't opened his eyes once. Now all she wanted was for him to live, to pull through, to heed her prayer of survival.

It had taken her two days to reach the keep, trying to steer clear of bands of raiders that were prowling the roads ever since the wolves and the lions had retreated, her boots the worse for wear. A maid let her in, allowing her a few bites to eat in the warm kitchen while announcing her to her mistress, and Meerya thought of home.

She'd left the stranger in the care of her father and her sister, telling to the latter to not be repulsed by the wounds she would have to redress every day during her absence, while hoping the former would be able to somehow send word to her when things went wrong. It was an idle thought, she feared, because with their limited means the man would probably be dead by the time the message reached her, but she had arranged for it anyway, giving in to the odd attachment she had started to feel for her patient.

"The Maester will speak with you," the maid said on coming back into the kitchen, giving her a pointed look. "Follow me."

Meerya stood, brushed some crumbs from her dress, and followed the girl through the dark hallways of the house to the Maester's quarters. She was shown into a room filled with countless books on shelves and multi-coloured jars on tables and two big, black ravens in a cage. Maester Ellard she recognised immediately, of course, as he walked around his desk towards her, while the maid closed the door on her way out.

"Meerya," the man said, coming to stand in front of her. "That is your name if I remember correctly?" Meerya nodded, startled when one of the ravens started screeching and flapping around in its cage. "Oh, just ignore that," he said, walking back to his seat. "What can I do for you?"

She took a deep breath, feeling nervous all of a sudden, ridiculously afraid the Maester would refuse her for some reason. She looked up at him and squared her shoulders.

"I have a stranger in my house," she said. "I found him on the bank of the river and he is wounded." She swallowed, pushing the images of the bleeding wounds out of her mind's eye. "Arrows… They fired arrows at him, and I have tried to remove them and stitch up the holes, but…" She faltered, no longer able to block out the horrific images of the open gaping wounds, and Ellard smiled softly at her, patting her shoulder. "He doesn't heal, Maester, and I don't know what to do. You've got to help me." She shuddered through another breath. "My father wouldn't let me come here at first, but I asked him how he expects me to allow a strange man to die in the same room where I tended to _his_ wounds not so many moons before."

The Maester nodded in understanding. "Arrows, you say…" He gave her a sharp look. "How many?"

She held up her hand, her fingers spread apart.

"No other wounds beside the bolts?" he asked again.

"Oh, yes," Meerya answered. "He has some stab wounds, not too deep, and his face is scratched and cut." She waited for a second. "He also has terrible bite marks in his neck which I found in his leather clothes as well. Holes this big," and with her thumb and forefinger she indicated to the Maester the size of the marks she had discovered in the stranger's clothing. Ellard stared at her hand, still mid-air, and contemplated for a few moments.

"Go back to the kitchen and wait until I call you again." He stood, leaving no room for more words.

**DACEY**

When Maester Ellard finally stepped out of the room, closing the door as quietly as he could, Dacey jerked to attention, inwardly scolding herself for her terrible lack of watchfulness.

"He's sleeping again," he said, folding his hands in his robes, lifting his chin to look her in the eye. "I have good hopes he will make it, now that he's awake and almost free of fever." He walked a few paces towards the stairs before halting, his shoulders hunched, as if in thought. When he turned around, Dacey cocked an eyebrow, silently prompting him to speak.

"A girl arrived today," he muttered, clearly debating with himself if this information was of any value to Dacey, but speaking again nonetheless. "She lives upstream with her family; her father and her siblings. I know of them, their mother died in a fire, leaving the house as nothing but a blackened ruin, courtesy of the war…" Dacey narrowed her eyes, stepping closer to Ellard, wondering where he was going with his words, but before she could say anything, the Maester was already continuing. "She's asked me to help her tend to a wounded man that she's keeping alive in her father's house." He paused and swallowed, a thoughtful look on his face. "It might be one of your lot."

"My lot…" Dacey repeated carefully, her hand resting on the pommel of the unfamiliar sword by her hip. "That almost sounds as if you are uneasy with your master's shifting allegiances, Maester." She slowly moved her hand away from her sword, folding her arms in front of her chest – ignoring the stabbing pain in her shoulder – not a flinch across her face.

"I am not uneasy at all, my lady," he answered smoothly. "I only mean to serve this family and you will have to agree that I have so far tended to you and your friend in the room behind you to the best of my abilities." It was something Dacey could not deny and she shifted on her feet, unfolding her arms, her face a stern mask.

"What do you suggest?" she asked instead, realising she was still too weak to ride a horse; too weak even to travel much farther than the dining room at the bottom of the stairs. "Will you go and see this man?"

"If my master gives me leave, yes I will." He stared at Dacey for the longest time. "I'll see what I can do for him, if he can be helped or even moved here." He waited a second before adding, "or if he's likely to die soon."

With those words he left her at Smalljon's room and she allowed the tension to release from between her shoulders, adjusting the sword at her hip. It had been a bad omen when she had to part with her sword inside Walder Frey's great hall as no Kingsguard should ever have to, and she remembered how naked she'd felt without it, realising there was no way she could defend Robb, or herself for that matter, if anything went wrong. She had taken her current sword from a dead Stark soldier who, like her, had washed up on the riverbank, and although it more or less matched her own in length and weight, it definitely wasn't hers and thus it felt strange on her hip. She could only hope to get used to the blade in time, when it became necessary to wield it again. Maybe she _should_ take more rest in order for her shoulder to heal, she thought, and realised she and Smalljon really did have no other option but to trust the family that had taken them in; along with their somewhat slippery Maester.

**MEERYA**

When the Maester returned, he found her in the kitchen on a bench in front of the roaring cook fire. "Come with me," was all he said and she followed him through the same corridors until they arrived at his room again. When she entered there were two things she noticed: the two broken arrows lying on the desk and, in the corner of the room, an awfully tall, fierce-faced lady that she did not know. On closer inspection, the woman was wearing a heavy leather jerkin over a pair of leather breeches and a particularly nasty sword on a belt across her hips, and it made Meerya feel more than uneasy. This woman was a warrior, she realised as she studied the long, heavy braid draped over one shoulder, the fingers of her right hand resting gently on the pommel of a dagger strapped to her other hip, while her eyes missed nothing. The woman was also wounded, Meerya realised with a shock, when she caught a glimpse of a white bandage underneath her tunic, possibly to cover a wound near her collarbone.

"Who is that?" she heard herself say and the woman narrowed her eyes at her.

"We'll come to that later," Maester Ellard said and motioned for her to step closer to the table. "I'm more interested in the arrows you mentioned." He rested his fists on the table in front of him and looked at the broken arrows lying on it, Meerya's eyes following suit. "Did you look at them?" He dragged his eyes away from the counter and squinted at her. "You kept them, right?"

Meerya nodded. She knew enough about warfare these days to understand that arrows could tell entire stories, and she had to swallow hard when she remembered how she had pulled the five barbed arrows out of the stranger's body, causing nauseating amounts of blood to spill, trying to stitch each of the five holes to the best of her abilities. While working with needle and thread the man had shuddered beneath her hands, and Meerya knew it must have been pain even though he wasn't conscious, which made her try and work even faster. The remains of the bolts she had rolled into a rag, which she kept under her bed. "They're at home," she muttered, lifting one of the arrows in her hands, examining the fletching. "They're safe." She slowly twirled the arrow between her fingers. "And I think these are quite the same."

The Maester glanced at the warrior woman still standing by the hearth like a sentinel.

"Can your patient be moved?" he asked and it snapped Meerya out of her thoughts and back into the room. She looked up at the Maester, eyes wide. She shrugged; she had no idea.

"He's wracked by fever," she offered. "And the wounds I closed will not heal. They're damp and purple and have a yellowish edge." She had rehearsed describing the wounds in her head over and over as she travelled the road to the Wilford, making sure not to leave any detail out. "His skin is clammy and pale."

"What did you do to fight the fever?" Ellard asked and she mentioned everything, from the regular changes of cool rags to shaving off the man's beard. "Maybe I should have cut his hair as well," she began, thinking of how she always thought his hair was the only thing about him that hadn't been maimed and butchered and how she couldn't have brought herself to cut it. She briefly watched the Maester contemplate the situation before allowing her gaze to drift to the woman in the corner once more. Then it struck her.

"She's wearing almost identical clothes."

"Is she now?" the Maester said and this time his look at the woman wasn't merely a fleeting glimpse but a very pointed look. "I think," he said, slowly turning his head to face Meerya again, "that I shall travel back to your home with you, and we shall see if this stranger you're talking about can still be helped." He stood, once again with an air of finality Meerya didn't exactly like, but she left the room, glad the Maester had decided to come back home with her.

It took about a day to prepare everything, a wayn having to be prepared in case her patient had to be taken to the Wilford. Master Gerad allowed Ellard to take the necessary materials, which also meant his sturdiest wagon and his best horse. The only thing no one really had a solution for was their safety. The Wilford was not a big keep and the few armed men they housed needed to guarantee the safety of the people remaining behind.

"I'll come," the tall, dark-haired woman offered that evening.

"You're still healing," the Maester threw in but the woman only shrugged.

"If he's one of ours I need to protect him, whoever he is."

"Why?" Meerya blurted out, fully aware she was not supposed to interfere, and she involuntarily clapped a hand over her mouth. For the first time, she saw the woman smile. It was a measured, short smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Soldiers protect each other," she ended up answering Meerya's question. "And I'm a soldier."

"I have never met a woman like you," Meerya said. "A woman soldier, I mean."

"Where I come from I'm nothing special," the woman said, a hint of her earlier smile still in place, her eyes slightly out of focus – another first. "My mother is a warrior, my sisters are as well."

"Where _do_ you come from?" Meerya ventured, but from the look on the lady's face she could tell that question would not get an answer.

"I'm Dacey," the woman said instead, dipping her chin at Meerya. "I'll come with you tomorrow – I have had worse," she snapped in the Maester's direction before he could open his mouth to utter his obvious objections. "Anyone who may perhaps survive what we've been put through at the Twins deserves my protection, and that's all I have to say on the matter." With those words the lady stood, and Meerya once again noticed how tall and formidable the woman was, her sword and dagger and heavy leather hauberk equally mighty. She pushed her thick braid over her shoulder, coming to rest between her shoulder blades, the end of it nearly reaching the small of her back, and Meerya watched her leave the room, her stride confident and strong.

Tomorrow, she would be going home.


	3. Chapter 3

**DACEY**

It had been a grave mistake for her to come along, Dacey realised as they were not three miles from the keep, but no one would hear it from her. Her shoulder hurt in the most gruesome manner, pulled this way and that every time her horse made an unexpected move. She gritted her teeth, though, and schooled her face in the most neutral expression she could muster, anxious as she was not to allow the Maester to see she was in no fit state to travel the twenty miles to Meerya's home and back. Ever since she knew there might possibly be someone else who had survived the massacre with her and Smalljon, she needed to see who it was, hear his story – it might even be someone she'd know.

Leaving Jon had been difficult, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat. They had no choice but to trust the people at the Wilford, but with the passing of the weeks it had become clear that neither one of them truly trusted any of the people they were surrounded by since they had survived Edmure's wedding. Leaving Smalljon defenceless and still in so much pain and fear, not to mention taking the Maester away from him, had given her pause. So much so that she had almost talked herself into staying at the keep, until Smalljon told her he would be fine, and that any man of theirs still out there fighting for his life, deserved her protection – such as it was – much more than he did. She had slipped him her dagger, telling him to hide it, and she had given Gerad's wife Ayla such a pointed look on her arrival in Smalljon's room that the lady had seemed to shrink away from Dacey's presence.

"I'll take care of him, I promise," the woman managed to say, aiming for a disarming smile, but Dacey had just nodded, muttering '_you'd better_' under her breath before leaving the house in search of her horse.

Another sharp stab of pain bolted through her body and Dacey was snapped out of her thoughts, her eyes focusing again on the road ahead and the woods on either side of it. Behind her Meerya and the Maester were talking and instead of turning in the saddle to ask them to keep it down, she had to let her horse fall back and tell them off while looking straight ahead in order to prevent more pain. While they quickly nodded and stopped talking altogether, Dacey trotted ahead again and offered a prayer to the old gods begging to spare them from raiders or soldiers or Frey search parties for she would be totally unable to fight them off.

It took them most of the day to reach Meerya's home – or what was left of it – and by the time Dacey came off her horse everything inside of her had gone frighteningly numb. "I know," Ellard whispered in passing, following Meerya to the door, shooting her a knowing look. Dacey looked away, wondering as she limped to the door herself if the Maester hadn't been right after all when he'd told her she shouldn't travel. Yet, it could no longer be helped and she mustered the last shreds of her energy to go inside and face whoever it was Meerya had found all those weeks ago. Maybe seeing one of her own would renew her strength.

"Where is he?" Ellard asked, nodding at Meerya's father who could only stare dumbfounded at the almost-train of people that suddenly came through the door in the dusky half-light of the evening. Two younger men, her brothers most likely, stood silently watching with their arms folded across their chests and Dacey squared her shoulders – despite the pain. The people in this house were merely trying to survive, she could tell from even the smallest signs, but something about them told her that she needed to be on her guard, especially around the brothers. They looked at her suspiciously, something she could not really blame them for since she walked into their house in full leather hauberk (of which she had been clever enough to remove her House's sigil before they left at the break of dawn) and her broadsword, not to mention she was almost six foot tall.

Meerya led them to a small room, only divided from the rest of the house by a curtain, and the Maester followed her inside, his bag of instruments in hand. Reaching out to grab the curtain, she could hear his voice calling her.

"He's alive, Dacey," Ellard said. "Why don't you come in and tell me if you know him?"

When Dacey stepped inside the room she thought her heart would stop.

What she wanted to do was drop to her knees by the side of the rackety bed and wake him up, to call his name and wipe the beads of sweat from his brow, to cup his cheek and tell him – _promise_ him – things would be all right and she would lead him to safety, but she also knew instantly that no one could know she had found none other than Robb Stark, and so she stood as passively as she could, resisting with all her might the urge to touch the man she was sworn to protect. She was never one for politics but in this case she knew she had to keep her wits about her; it was imperative no one would know this was in fact the King in the North.

Especially not the two brothers, who had stepped up behind her and were following the proceedings in the room with an oddly curious interest.

Dacey's mind worked at high speed now that she understood she had been given a renewed chance at being a Kingsguard, a task she felt she had truly forsaken; something that had eaten away at her nerves during every last hour since surviving the Twins. She moved around the bed slowly without saying a word, giving herself time to think. She saw that Meerya had taken most of his clothes off and knew she would underestimate the brothers if she thought they had not thoroughly examined them. She didn't know how much telltale signs of his House and his kingship had still remained after his stint in the river, but she had to expect the worst.

"I know him," she began, slowly, taking in his deep red curls, long and shaggy around his face, his scratchy, ruined, once so handsome face. "He came down with Robb Stark's army from the North."

"A soldier?" one of the brothers asked and she dragged her gaze up from the bed.

"No," she answered, acutely aware that whatever would come out of those brothers' mouths would only be covered up ways of testing her. "He's a Captain. I don't know of which company – I was only a soldier myself and I wasn't serving under him." She could tell the brothers weren't certain she was speaking the truth. "The King in the North marched with over twenty thousand men," she added, hoping to sound casual. "We camped around the Twins with over twelve. You do not honestly believe me to have known every singe one of them?"

"I must say I have never come across a woman soldier before," the other brother chimed in, changing the course of attack. "It's hard to believe you are able to use that sword you're carrying there."

Dacey cursed inside. "I'm still recovering from my own wounds," she said curtly. "But once I'm healed I'll gladly challenge you to a duel." The young man smiled wryly at her. "You won't win," Dacey added, with an equally strained smile.

"My brothers should know better than to pick fights with Northern warriors, shouldn't you, Maaric?" Meerya asked pointedly, handing the Maester his bag as he motioned for it. "Now all of you, leave, so we can tend to him."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dacey said and it earned her a curious look from the Maester.

"I don't know how many of us survived," she added quickly. "He may well be the highest in rank, and if that's the case I have a duty to keep him alive." She widened her stance in the corner of the room and crossed her arms in front of her chest, her hand on the pommel of her sword. "I won't be in the way," she said decisively, not brooking any further argument.

The brothers retreated the very second the Maester started pulling the covers away from the patient and in a flash Dacey knew she was going to see a whole lot more of her King than she had ever bargained for – forcing her face to remain as impassive as it had been throughout the exchange with Meerya's brothers. When Ellard removed the bandages he muttered under his breath, clucked his tongue and Dacey could see Meerya shrink as the Maester's investigation continued.

'Well," he began, turning to look at the girl. "It is not the best work I have ever seen, but you certainly kept him alive with it." Dacey looked at Meerya, taking in her scrawny appearance, a daughter who lost her mother and, in a way, her father too, and who could barely make ends meet after the war had raged around their parts. Dacey knew she was indebted to this girl, that she should and would not ever forget this and that hopefully there would come a day to repay her; once Meerya knew the true weight behind her actions.

"I'm going to undo all the stitching," the Maester cut through her thoughts. "And then clean the wounds and then close them once more. If we start right now, we could be on our way to the Wilford in the morning." He looked up from his work to nod at Dacey. "Because he can't stay here, Dacey – prepare the bed in the wagon."

Dacey hesitated. The order from the Maester was clear enough, and ignoring it because she wanted to stay in the room could cast suspicion. Yet, she also knew that opening up the wounds was by far the most hazardous part of the Maester's plans and she wanted to be around when he carried it out.

"Later," she said. "I might be of help if you start opening him up again." She unbuckled her sword belt in a bid of cooperation, resting the blade in the windowsill where she could reach it quickly if necessary. "I've seen enough wounds in this bloody war to know _that _much. Let me at least help you first."

Ellard nodded and the three of them set to work.

It happened when the Maester cut the stitches of the very last wound, the one closest to the scar Robb received after storming the Crag. The Maester lifted his hands away from Robb's body and Meerya stumbled back in surprise when his whole body jerked – clearly in pain – and then his eyes were open, blurry, his pupils fully shot to black, but open.

"Rodrik," Dacey called out, dropping to her knees beside the bed, realising belatedly how that might look but happy with herself for coming up with a name just in case she had to use it before she could explain the situation to the King. As the other two people in the room were steadily working to undo Meerya's well-meant but clearly clumsy stitches, she had mostly watched, taking or offering the incidental bandage or knife, and think up a suitable name to keep from revealing Robb's true identity. The name would give her a fraction of time to correct herself if she accidentally wanted to call him Robb and she knew it would stick easily in Robb's head, as she'd chosen the name of the man who taught him everything about arms and warfare and fighting there was to know.

"Hold him down, Dacey," the Maester said and she knew she would have to press down on Robb's shoulders with all her strength in order to restrain him. As she moved to the head of the bed, hands on his shoulders all the while, she looked at his eyes and wondered if he realised where he was, or even _who_ he was. She smiled down at him, pushing his shoulders into the mattress, swallowing hard when he cried out in agony once the Maester started cutting away at the stitching again.

"Shouldn't we give him something for the pain?" she asked hopefully, but the Maester shook his head.

"Once I start cleaning these wounds he'll pass out anyway," he said in a dark voice, and it was true. Robb's second terrified scream that tore through everyone's bones was also his last before he lost consciousness again.

It had been a week before Dacey was finally strong enough to leave her bedroom. She had fallen quite ill with a persistent fever after they arrived at the Wilford again, two days after the Maester had finished treating Robb's wounds. The trek back to the small keep had sapped the last of her strength and she could only hope and pray Robb wouldn't wake up and give himself away while she was absent from his sickbed, finally tackled by disease to one herself. Cleaning and redressing his wounds had proved much more work than the Maester anticipated, and Robb had woken up on two more occasions, his screams and spasms testimony to the terrible pain the Frey arrows had left him in. Once done, Ellard had been exhausted himself and didn't dare move his patient until the trembling had stopped and the fever that had started raging anew had more or less abated. Robb had been delivered to the keep drawn and pale and so thin Dacey wondered if she would ever see him again as she got into a bed of her own.

Gerad had visited her, though, together with his wife, to tell her how Smalljon was growing stronger every day, his fever gone, walking about in his room, and although her illness sometimes made it seem impossible for Dacey to even think straight, she had apologised to the lady of the house for her improper behaviour before they had left. Ayla smiled, holding up her hands, muttering something about how these trying times made everyone paranoid.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pushed her legs into her breeches and threw her linen shirt over her head, needing another five minutes to catch her breath. "Seven hells," she cursed, but only after she'd muttered the words did she realise her shoulder hurt far less than it had done before she was forced to remain in bed. Pulling on her boots and buckling her sword in place proved quite a task, but she managed, leaving the room in search of Smalljon first and Robb after.

"Jon," she spoke softly, closing the door behind her, finding her comrade sitting up in his bed, smiling as he saw her. She sat down on the edge of his bed, grabbing his hand. "You will not believe who the patient in Meerya's house turned out to be." Smalljon's eyes widened and Dacey knew she did not even have to pronounce his name. "They don't know who he is, they have never literally seen our King" she continued, her voice even less than a whisper. "Not even Gerad and his wife, I think. Or they _have _recognised him and they are true to their word, which is good, but it's not as good as not knowing altogether. His true identity has to remain a secret, Jon." She took a deep breath, barely able to contain her laughter, sheer happiness bubbling up now she could finally share the news with her fellow Kingsguard, her _friend_. "I've called him Rodrik, and for now I have made him a Captain in the Stark army. There may have been Stark paraphernalia left on his clothes when they found him and I'm certain Meerya and her family have examined those to try and find out who he is."

Smalljon pushed up and swung his legs over the edge, reaching for his breeches on the far end of his bed. Dacey closed a hand over his. "He was in a terrible state, Jon," she muttered. "I asked Gerad if he was still alive when he came to visit me three days ago, and he told me that was the case – but barely." Smalljon stilled his movements to look at her and she noticed how his beard was steadily growing back to its former glory. She offered him her safest smile, the one that told him not to despair. "He'll pull through. I know he will," she stated, balling her fists unconsciously, looking down as Smalljon touched her wrist. "And when he does we'll go back north and hide him and amass an army again and reclaim what was taken from him – from us."

Without another word they both left the room, in search of Robb's.

**JEYNE**

She didn't think she had ever been so cold in her life before. She had grown up at sea, in the south, with the sun on her skin more days than not, and of course it was the worst possible preparation for travelling north. Especially _this_ far north. The fire she was staring at only did so much to stop her from trembling, her dress and fur cloak not nearly enough to block out the cold gusts of wind, and when she looked up at the sky she could tell the clouds had much more snow in store.

"Here," a gruff voice came from behind, placing another thick fur cloak around her shoulders. She huddled inside of it, gratefully looking up at the big man who was now walking around the fire to join her in their evening meal. He cut a meaty bit off the rabbit that was roasting over the small fire and her gloved hand took it from him, giving it a dubious glance. "You need to eat, Your Grace," the man said, cutting off a morsel for himself. "You need to eat in case we will have to go without for a few days; you'll need some fat on you to survive the cold that's still to come." He tore off some more meat and handed it to her, watching her carefully as she ate obediently – offering the man her most grateful smile.

"I cannot thank you enough, Ser Brynden," she said after most of the rabbit was gone.

"You are my Queen," he answered, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You were never going to be safe at Riverrun, not in the end, so I smuggled you out. It was the only sensible thing to do."

She looked at him with her kind eyes, thinking back to the night he had stolen into her room, urging her to get dressed, telling her how something terrible had happened and that she needed to leave the castle sooner rather than later. He had helped her pack the barest of necessities, told her to dress as warmly as possible before throwing one of Robb's heavy fur cloaks over his arm and leaving the room with it, growling a hurried '_follow me_'. With a start Jeyne realised it was this cloak the Blackfish had just draped across her shoulders and it caused a fresh wave of grief to wash over her unannounced. She averted her face, unwilling to show the old man in front of her even more of her useless tears, but she couldn't help herself.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said uncomfortably, clearly lost for words.

"My name is Jeyne," she smiled through her tears. "I never liked the title anyway, and I am more of a widow now than a Queen, so please call me Jeyne." Her words caused her to burst into even more tears when she remembered how Robb had never truly got used to his title either, urging her to call him Robb right from the start, right after they did what they did and he married her for it. It was something she knew no one would ever do for her but Robb had, from which point on it was impossible for her not to love him. When they were a good thirty miles from Riverrun, during which she spent most of her time wondering how they could possibly have crossed the river without getting their feet wet, Brynden Tully had sat her down and told her what had happened at the Twins where his nephew was supposed to get married to Frey's daughter Roslin. Not much of what he told her that evening had stuck in her mind but for the part that Robb had been slaughtered at Walder Frey's hands, betrayed and murdered after he had been forced to leave Grey Wind outside and order his Kingsguard to disarm. The North had lost its King, she was dimly aware, but the fact that she had lost the boy who'd managed to make her feel like she belonged was what had _really_ slammed her in the face and left her barely conscious. She had lost her husband who only ever laughed when he was with her. She lost the man who took her to his bed every night and worshipped her, told her how precious she was to him and how much he wanted to get a baby on her. She lost him before they ever truly got to know each other, their marriage barely one year old, leaving her maimed and bereft and shattered with the loss of him.

She swallowed, trying to stop the tears, sternly telling herself it was something that could not be helped anymore and that she was still his Queen. She should at least give him that – his honour and his memory kept alive by a Queen who held her head high despite her grief. It was an anchoring thought, actually; the challenge she needed to survive.

"Maybe calling you Jeyne would not be such a bad idea," Ser Brynden's dark voice broke through the haze of her sorrow, a slight smile on his lips. "After all, no one is supposed to know I'm harbouring you, and the title that comes with you." He winked at her and she smiled through her tears, wiping the wetness from her cheeks with her sleeve.

"And I'll try not to be such a common girl – crying at every turn," Jeyne grinned, tucking Robb's furs closer around her body. "We can meet each other half way."

"Sounds like a deal," the Blackfish agreed, killing part of the flames by kicking snow over it. "Now, let us try and get some sleep. It's a long way yet to the Wall and we will need our strength."

"Are we close to Winterfell, do you know?" Jeyne asked before walking to the shelter of a huge overhanging slab of rock, the thought suddenly coming to her.

"Aye," the old knight answered. "It's a day or two to the northeast, as the raven flies." He stood as well, guiding her to her makeshift bed. "Does this knowledge comfort you?"

"Yes," she said, smiling up at the big man, clad from head to toe in black mail and a giant fur cloak. "It most certainly does."

Lying down, she wrapped herself in her heavy furs, hoping against hope that a bit of Robb still remained in the rough animal skin. She had never seen Winterfell in her life, and she knew that her husband's ancestral home had been put to the torch by Theon Greyjoy, but the simple thought that she was getting nearer to the place where Robb had most likely spent the happiest moments of his life gave her an odd sense of peace, allowing her to sleep well for the first time in weeks.


	4. Chapter 4

**DACEY**

Instinctively, Dacey hated the fact there was no one to guard Robb Stark's door. It had been such an ingrained part of her life as his guard to always look out for his safety, that an unbarred, unguarded door made her feel awfully uneasy.

"Did you bring my dagger?" she asked, grabbing the doorknob.

Smalljon patted his side, smiling. "I'll take first watch after we see him."

Once inside, she didn't know if he was unconscious or simply sleeping as she stepped closer to the bed. Someone had cut his hair, possibly to help fight his fever, but Dacey did not like the look of it at all. His beard was growing back, at least, she noticed, and his eyes were not so deeply set in their sockets as when she was forced to leave him alone a week ago.

Smalljon dropped to his knees beside the bed, acting out the reaction Dacey had had to suppress at Meerya's house. "I cannot believe this," he murmured, looking from Robb's ravaged, sleeping face to Dacey's smiling one. "You were right."

"Did you doubt me, Lord Umber?" Dacey asked him sternly, the twinkle clear in her eyes.

"I confess I needed to see this myself, aye," Jon chuckled, moving to stand up again lest someone should come in. "Is he asleep, you think?"

She shrugged, happy to be able to do so without pain. Sitting down, she touched Robb's shoulder, the one that had not taken an arrow. "Robb," she said softly, nudging him as gently as she could, pulling back in surprise as he opened his eyes. "Your Grace," she whispered and it took all of her willpower not to just kiss him then and there.

"Dacey," he gritted out, turning his head a fraction to be able to look at Smalljon. "Jon." His breath came out a horrific shudder and his guards exchanged a worried glance. "H-how?"

"Impossible to explain quickly," Dacey whispered, her hand brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, lingering too long, but the urge to comfort him was just too overwhelming. There was nothing kingly about him now; his thin, ravaged body and pale face a constant reminder that he shouldn't be alive, that he was nothing but a scared boy, too young for the crown they had thrust upon him. Reluctantly, she pulled her hand back, aware of Smalljon's eyes on her. "A local girl found you in the river," she whispered again. "She kept you alive. The Maester in this house redressed your wounds, he saved you for real." She swallowed. "They have no idea who you are, Robb, and it has to stay that way."

His eyes widened, then narrowed and an array of emotions came and went between both expressions. "I understand," he said at last, his voice rough and gritty from disuse, before closing his eyes. They were silent for a while, Dacey and Jon staring at the ghost of what their King once was – tall, proud, brave – and Dacey gasped as she noticed a lone tear trickle out from between Robb's dark lashes, every last bit of feminine instinct she had always kept a lid on during her warrior life kicking in with force.

"Your Grace…" she began, her heart aching for him, wondering what she could possibly say to lessen his grief.

When he opened his eyes again they were sad and glistening with more tears and he looked at them both. "I send them all to their graves," he whispered, his eyes going out of focus, giving Dacey the unpleasant feeling he was staring straight through her. "I send my _mother_ to her grave."

"Robb…" Dacey picked up his hand where it lay limp on the bed. "What Walder Frey did…" She took a deep breath. "It is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself for such an abomination." He shook his head slowly, opening his mouth to disagree with her but his face contorted in sudden pain and Dacey gripped his hand even tighter, forcing him to look at her.

"I've told them… – _Robb_," she urged and he focused on her once again as she brushed the tears from his face, his own hand still out of order underneath the furs. She gave him a pointed stare, forcing him to pay close attention. "I told them you are a captain in Robb Stark's army." He blinked, trying frantically to understand what she was saying. "They saw your clothes," she continued. "They know you must be from Winterfell, or at the very least a Northman in the Stark army." Robb nodded slowly, the strategics of it all coming back to him. "Your name is Rodrik for now." She blushed a bit, could feel the warmth of it travel up her cheeks, embarrassed suddenly by the liberties she had already taken. Then again, they needed to survive and get to the north and their King was in no state to take care of things himself.

"A good name," he croaked out, and Dacey felt her heart swell when finally, slowly, a smile formed on Robb Stark's bruised face.

"We'll not be calling you _Your Grace_," Jon muttered quietly and Robb turned his head to look at the massive man standing to his left. "But you are still our King."

"Hate the title anyway," Robb whispered hoarsely and his guards laughed.

"I'll visit you again tonight," Dacey said, still smiling. She stood, letting go of his hand. "Focus on getting better, so we can get out of here." Robb nodded and all Dacey could see was a scared boy who missed his mother.

When Smalljon was already outside with Dacey close on his heels, Robb spoke once more and they both stopped in their tracks.

"Lady Mor– Dacey?" They both turned around and saw he had his eyes averted. Dacey stepped back into the room, waiting for Robb to say more.

"Yes?" she asked when he stalled, foregoing his name or title with the door wide open.

"Could you..?" he hesitated and she moved closer to the bed. "Would you…" he breathed deeply, throwing a furtive glance in Smalljon's direction, "stay in the room?" He swallowed thickly. "I don't want to be– " She held up a hand, cutting him off, unbuckling her belt and sword.

"Of course," she smiled gently, handing the items to Smalljon, exchanging a knowing glance with him. "Guard the door; give me the dagger." Smalljon dipped his chin, handing her the dagger, moving out of the room once again. He closed the door quietly and Dacey went to stand in front of it.

"Thank you," Robb mumbled and she could tell he was embarrassed.

"How bad is the pain?" she asked him, thinking he would want her to talk to him, hear a familiar voice. Robb just narrowed his eyes, a deep crease right above his nose. "That bad?" Dacey grimaced and the corners of Robb's mouth drew up in a strained smile that warmed her heart. She had always thought Robb Stark a handsome young man, but when he smiled he was something to behold. The second she realised what she was _really_ thinking, she pushed the thought away, annoyed with herself.

"The Maester gave you milk of the poppy for days," she continued. "You took five bolts to the chest and a number of stab wounds." She thought back to the day she and the Maester and Meerya had reopened all of his wounds, and how the gruesome sight of it but especially the smell would most likely stay with her for the rest of her days.

"Meerya found you in the river, and the water had done the wounds no favours. She stitched it all up which kept you alive, but barely. Maester Ellard's poultices helped clean the wounds, or so he told me. And I must admit the bandages look fresh and clean even to my untrained eye." Even though the topic of her story was of a rather horrific nature, he was hanging on to her every word, telling her she had been right in thinking he just wanted a familiar voice and face around after the atrocities he had been through, and all the pain he had endured.

She knew she had been overjoyed when she found out Smalljon was in the room next to her, giving her someone to talk to, someone who could relate to the cruelties they had both witnessed. Smalljon had been scared too, at a certain point, huge hulk of a man though he was. Fear of death experienced off the battlefield could take the heart of anyone, Dacey knew, as lying down, waiting for things to change – be it for better or worse – without being able to do anything about it, without fighting one's way to safety or death, was infuriating and maddening and frightening at the best of times. Of course Robb was scared, she understood it perfectly – he was nowhere near out of the woods yet; so if staying in the room with him meant he could breathe a little easier, it was the least she could do.

"I want no more of it," Robb broke through her thoughts, and she frowned wondering what part of her words he was referring to.

"The Maester's milk," he muttered and Dacey smiled. "I want no more of the dreams I had when he kept me under."

"Bad dreams?" she asked but he shook his head slowly.

"It's difficult to explain."

"I have time," she smiled at him, stepping a little closer to the bed.

"When I dream it always feels like I am someone else, someone who knows me, all of me." He drew a shuddery breath into his lungs and Dacey had to strain to hear his next words. "I have not had those dreams for a long time." He paused, drawing breath for his next words, and Dacey frowned when she saw the effort it took. "I'm certain it's because of the milk. That's why I don't want it anymore." He looked at her. "I prefer the pain."

"I understand," Dacey said, hoping she did. "I'll tell the Maester, if you like."

He nodded, grimacing with a sudden stab of pain and Dacey winced. "You should sleep now, Robb," she whispered, moving even closer to the bed, careful not to be overheard mentioning his name. "I'll stay with you for as long as you like, but you need to rest."

"Of course," he admitted, and she watched him smile softly at her. "Dacey?"

"Your Gr–, _yes_?" she hastily corrected herself, inwardly kicking herself for being so careless.

"Where's Grey Wind?" he asked on a whisper, and Dacey looked at him, speechless, slowly putting the pieces together; realising only then that Robb did not remember anything after he'd witnessed his mother's slow, gruesome death. Maybe it would come back to him in time and he would ultimately be able to tell her and Jon exactly how he had escaped, but for now all he knew was that his mother had died because he took her there, because he had married the wrong girl and he caused his mother to be in that hall, and her bloody end was his last memory. She blinked her tears away.

"I don't know," she said at last and she watched his face fall. "But I'm certain he was the one who saved you."

**JEYNE**

She had slept fitfully ever since the nights the howling started. They were in the Wolfswood now, the Blackfish had explained to her, and of course it reminded her of Grey Wind. She had tried so hard not to be afraid of Robb's direwolf; understanding how much the animal meant to her husband, but he was so huge and his muzzle was always twisted around a growl and she was certain the animal could smell her fear. Robb had assured her Grey Wind would never hurt her, that he more likely only wanted to guard her, but she had never truly believed him, convinced as she was that direwolves were impossible to control by mere humans.

When the Blackfish softly shook her shoulder, wordlessly signalling their time of rest was over, she sat up, her back aching, head pounding – every day harder to face than the previous one. They had passed a small keep the day before and Ser Brynden had somehow (she never asked how) procured a big loaf of bread, something the taste of which she had almost forgotten, and he handed her the piece he'd just torn off, going back to tending to their horse (she never asked how he procured that one, either).

The snowfall had stopped about three days ago – she couldn't be sure as days and nights seemed to have started blurring together – which made their trek marginally more bearable but still Jeyne wondered if she would survive and live to see the Wall. She stared into the fire, thinking how they had to sleep with a fire now that the wolves were prowling on their trail, a thought that sent perpetual shivers down Jeyne's spine – causing her to see sharp, yellowish eyes behind every tree and around every corner, where obviously there were none.

After only a few bites she realised why she wasn't tucking in with more fervour; a strange thing since hunger was their constant companion. The trees around her began to spin, and stumbling to her feet, she only made it three steps before doubling over and vomiting up the contents of her stomach.

"My Lady!" the Blackfish called out, hurrying over, grabbing her shoulders and her braid to keep it away from the mess. She sat up, leaning into his grasp and taking in a shuddery lungful of cold, crisp air.

"It's nothing," she rushed to say as the old man looked at her, his brow creased with worry. "I'm fine. It's this journey, the strange food, the _lack_ of food – I'm just too frail for these harsh conditions; this land. It's a good thing my husband doesn't get to see me like this." She offered him the bravest smile she could muster and grabbed a handful of snow to wash out her mouth in a distinctly unladylike gesture. "I just need to toughen up if I'm going to survive at the Wall." She stood, carefully brushing down her dress and her cloak, allowing Ser Brynden to adjust her furs and walk her to the horse, helping her up.

"Will you be all right?" he asked, giving her a very pointed look, and Jeyne smiled and nodded before he mounted the horse as well, right behind her, protecting her from the worst of the cold and the wind and anything or anyone else they did not particularly care to meet. The Blackfish had told her he expected them to leave the Wolfswood behind in about two more days, and Jeyne worried about it, wondering how she would deal with the harsh cold of the wide-open lands that lay ahead, the flat and barren lands before the Gift. Although the wolves had caused her to be fearful, the wood had at least offered them a most welcome shelter from the freezing winds. Jeyne shuddered when she realised such luxuries were rapidly becoming a thing of the past.

"On horseback we can make three to four times more speed," the Blackfish muttered behind her, clearly having read her thoughts. "Do not worry, Your Grace, I will get you to the Lord Commander – I have seen tougher times."

Jeyne would gladly believe it. The man they called the Blackfish (not the most flattering of nicknames for a Tully, she thought, still wondering how he had earned it) had safeguarded her away from the Trident, along Ironman's Bay and into the Neck. They couldn't travel the King's Road for obvious reasons, but bands of outlaws and raiders roamed freely across the land and for the first few days she had travelled in a constant state of panic, expecting murder at every bend, fuelled by her grief and her feverish images of how Robb must have found his end at the Twins. Crossing through Frey territory had been gruesome, especially when the towers of the Twins came into view – remaining visible for the remainder of that day – causing her to cry silently, her sense of loss so acutely painful that it nearly took her breath away. Reaching the icy wind and snow of the North had almost felt like a blessing, as she felt connected to the land and her dead husband in all kinds of inexplicable ways that comforted her and gave her the strength she needed to face every new day. And throughout it all, the old knight kept her safe and relatively comfortable, found her food and shelter and anything else of use he could lay his hands on, never losing his patience with her tears and her weakness, steadfastly referring to her as _Your Grace_ and _My Lady_ and treating her with the utmost respect.

"Do you think my husband knew these woods well?" she ventured to ask, turning her head to give Ser Brynden a sidelong glance. Travelling in parts so close to her late husband's home had made her realise she hardly knew a thing about his youth, his life before the war, something that could only be rectified by very few people now.

"My niece, the Lady Catelyn, took Robb home to Winterfell before he could properly speak or walk," the Blackfish answered gruffly. "And then I didn't see him again until he was King in the North, and so close to his death." She turned her head back, biting her lip. "But I knew his father and I cannot imagine Eddard Stark didn't make certain his sons knew everything there is to know about the North. So, I gather he knew his way around here, yes."

Jeyne smiled, picturing Robb on his horse, a beautiful white destrier that she had first seen at the Crag after he had stormed the keep, the only horse she had ever seen him ride, and realised he'd been brought up riding and hunting and knowing his way around the frosty wasteland that she herself was currently trying to brave. She knew it was ridiculous, but for a few seconds she found herself breathing a little easier.

"Maybe you should talk to the Lord Commander once we reach the Wall," Ser Brynden muttered behind her once more. "Jon Snow grew up alongside the King, he probably knows him better than anyone else alive today." Jeyne nodded keenly, the prospect something to be treasured and warmed by, the things the Lord Commander could tell her about her husband. Of course Robb had told her of his half-brother, the one he flat-out refused to call Bastard, did not allow anyone else to call Bastard either – especially not after Theon Greyjoy's betrayal – and it told her something of the relationship the brothers must have shared. Then another thought hit her.

"Has a raven been sent to Castle Black?"

The Blackfish harrumphed behind her, clearly pondering the question.

"I mean," she said, untangling her own thoughts. "Will we be the ones to tell the Lord Commander of his brother's death? Or describe to him the circumstances in which he died?" Her questions caused them both to be silent, neither of them able to come up with any answers.

"Let's hope someone has sent word to the Wall," the Blackfish said in the end. "Or we will have to break the news to him, and from what I have heard, it will come as a terrible blow."

Before the last words had left Ser Brynden's mouth, the world started spinning just like it had that morning, and Jeyne could barely ask for the horse to be stopped and let off as her stomach once again turned inside out and she dropped to her knees as her body convulsed. The Blackfish dismounted quickly, repeating his actions of earlier that day, helping his charge up again and planting her on a stump of wood so she could get her bearings and catch her breath. Again, she used a bit of snow, spitting away from the old man – offering him a tentative smile afterwards. She'd started to mutter her apologies when he cut her off by grasping her hands in his own and shaking his head.

"Do not excuse yourself, Your Grace," he said, scrutinising her face for a few seconds.

When she started to feel uncomfortable under his gaze, on the brink of averting her eyes, the old man let go of her hands and dropped to his knees in the snow.

"Your Grace," he began. "May I speak freely?"

She almost giggled.

"My dear Ser Brynden," she said, briefly touching his cheek. "You saved my life, I'm certain of it. You may speak to me in any way you see fit. What is it you would like to say to me?"

She looked curiously at the Blackfish, waiting for the words to come.

"A frank question, doubtless," he said after a few seconds of apparent deliberation with himself, "but when was the last time Your Grace had her moon blood?"

"Surely–, " Jeyne began thoughtlessly, slightly embarrassed by the private character of the question; amused almost by the sheer ridiculousness of the thought, as she had never, not in all those months together with Robb, missed her bleeding even once. Then she fell silent, struck by the thought that this time it _had_ indeed been too long, and she whipped her head around, counting the moons in her head, her eyes widening as they locked on to Ser Brynden's questioning stare.

"By the gods," she stammered, her heart suddenly hammering in her ribcage, lowering her hands involuntarily to come and rest protectively over her stomach. "Oh, Robb…"


	5. Chapter 5

**DACEY**

He had managed to sit up in his bed before she came into the room; his triumphant little smile tugging at her heart. He didn't smile much, if ever; weighed down constantly by a crushing sense of guilt. She would sit with him every evening after she had shared her meal with Smalljon, keeping away from the family. They were both afraid of saying too much and didn't want the family to feel like they should entertain the strangers anyway. Tending them back to relative health had cost them more than enough already.

She had been surprised to find Robb preferred her company to Smalljon's, but when the latter suggested she might come closest to something of a mother figure it made a little more sense to her. They didn't speak much – he tired too easily, but just having her around seemed comforting enough and she was happy to oblige.

"Well, well," she smiled, closing the door carefully, sitting down at the foot of the bed as had also become her custom. "You're sitting up. We'll be out of here and back north in no time at all now." It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it when the last word had left her mouth and his smile instantly disappeared from his face, leaving a sad mask of the man he once was.

"There's nothing in the north for me," he muttered, looking down. "Winterfell is gone, my father is gone, my mother dead at my own hands, Bran and Rickon burnt, Sansa in the clutches of that madman and only the gods know where Arya is. I don't see how I deserve to be alive." He looked at her, barely lifting his head. "Maybe this is the gods' way of punishing me – forcing me to live out my days in the knowledge of what I have done; all the mistakes, the things I haven't done – all the wrong choices." He swallowed, staring at the window, the door, anywhere but at her. "Maybe I _do_ deserve to live," he continued quietly. "For I certainly don't deserve the peaceful rest of death."

"Don't say such things," Dacey scolded, shaking her head. "You still have a wife at Riverrun who's living under the false assumption you were slaughtered at the Twins. Think of _her_ grief. Don't you want her to know you're still alive?" He looked at her, his face completely blank. "Don't you want to take revenge for what Walder Frey did to your mother? To your bannermen? Your armies?" She breathed deeply. "To you and me and Smalljon?"

He dragged his gaze up to her, his expression no longer empty but riddled with more guilt.

"If I ever grow strong enough to wield a sword once more," he muttered softly, clearly not believing his own words, "then maybe." He lifted his head entirely, levelling a defiant gaze at her for which Dacey felt infinitely more grateful than the blank or guilty expression he usually wore. "But don't forget they call me the King who _lost_ the North."

Dacey had no reply to that and they just sat quietly together. She could tell he was struggling to keep his eyes open, and she decided to just stare at a fixed point somewhere behind him, giving him wordless leave to stop socialising and go to sleep. The evening had been taxing enough as it was and he didn't need more stress if she wanted to take him north soon. She had been busy planning their journey, wanting to take Robb away as soon as he could travel, on horseback or elsewise – and now that Smalljon had fully recovered she was itching to leave. Gerad had promised them horses and provisions for at least a week or two, a wagon if Robb could not yet sit a horse although she much rather wait until he had recovered enough to ride himself. They planned to follow the coastline before crossing the Western parts of the Neck to Flynt's Finger, trying to find passage there to Bear Island. If that failed they would have to ride further north into the Barrowlands and on to Deepwood Motte, but it was the less favourable plan, since Deepwood Motte was rumoured to have fallen into Ironborn hands. Dacey was startled from her thoughts by a deep groan coming from Robb's mouth and she watched him fuss under his covers. Getting up, she moved to pull them closer around him, the cold of the evening creeping into the room now that the fire in the hearth was burning low, and as she was bending over him like this she couldn't help but look at his face, so close to her own – for once not feeling embarrassed now that he was sound asleep.

His beard had grown back, a wonderful russet affair, as had his curls, and even some of the scratches that had so deformed his face were slowly fading from his cheeks and neck. The dressing around his torso had become less thick, she noticed, no longer holding the Maester's poultices to help heal the ugly wounds, and she knew from experience that his wounds were just horribly painful now, limiting one's ability to move freely; to talk or even sit for more than an hour; walking still very much out of the question. She also knew that this part of the healing process was usually only temporary and she had good hopes Robb would actually survive his ordeal. He was young, he had been healthy and fit when Walder Frey took him down so treacherously – the only way in which the Young Wolf could have been beaten, apparently – and Dacey was certain they needed to wait only one or maybe two more moons until Robb was well enough and they could take their leave. Gerad and his family had been wonderful, but every day they stayed on was another one in which Robb's true identity could be found out, and she wouldn't rest easy until he was safely up at Bear Island.

He groaned again, this time in pain, and her hand went up to his cheek of its own accord, caressing him softly until his wordless muttering stopped. Then, before she was even aware of it, Robb was awake and looking at her with his blue eyes wide open and – caught – Dacey jerked her hand away as if touched by fire.

**JON**

The two haggard travellers that had come riding through the gates of Castle Black mere minutes before, had immediately been brought to the Lord Commander's quarters and now Jon Snow stood studying Jeyne Westerling as she dropped to her knees by the fire, this woman who was his closest link to family now. He shivered despite the heat of the fire, the news of Robb's death still chafing his nerves. The raven had come almost a moon ago, the message clipped and clear: _Robb Stark and armies butchered at the Twins; Walder Frey breaching guest right; no survivors_. It had taken him days for the news to really sink in, and when it did – in the dead of night – he had left his rooms with Ghost, found the heart tree where he'd said his vows – and cried.

Shaking off the memory and trying to ignore the emptiness that had filled his heart ever since he knew his one true brother had fallen, he walked over to a side table to fill cups of warm spiced wine for his guests, or political fugitives rather, and handed one to the Blackfish.

"My apologies, Lord Commander," the old knight spoke quietly, offering him a pained smile. "I know the Night's Watch is not supposed to get tangled up in southron politics, but there was no other place to go. You're one of the few remaining relatives of my great-nephew who is in a place of relative power. And well away from the thick of the war."

"I will personally make sure the Queen is safe here," Jon said, giving the Blackfish a curt nod. "She is family, after all."

"She is also with child," Ser Brynden said under his breath, making sure the loaded message reached only Jon's ears.

"_She's_…? Blount," Jon called out, getting his steward's attention. "Secure some food for our guests, take it to their rooms and return." The boy in the corner sprang to attention and left the Lord Commander's quarters in a hurry, allowing Jon a small window of undisturbed time. "She's carrying the heir to Winterfell?" he asked slowly after the door had closed and the Blackfish nodded.

"We found out on the road, Lord Commander," the knight explained, twirling the cup between his fingers.

Jon found himself unable to keep his eyes off the young woman now that he knew she was carrying the heir to Winterfell. When she rose to take a more dignified seat in the nearest chair, he could already discern the slight swell of her stomach and it filled him with warmth and sadness all at the same time. Robb had been a wonderful older brother to his younger siblings, he remembered how he had always found time to play with Bran and especially Rickon and Jon knew he would have made a good father.

Then the harsh reality of this unexpected pregnancy truly hit him and he forced himself to see it for what it was at the Wall; a place of stern men and harsh cold and unexpected Wildling attacks. This pregnancy was an added complication. "I will harbour the Queen for now," he said softly, not wishing for Jeyne to overhear them lest it should upset her, "but ultimately she cannot stay here." The Blackfish gave him an unreadable look. "We are at war as much as the Lords of Westeros, Ser," he explained. "Wildlings are pushing south and I have no idea how long we can hold the Wall if none of those blasted kings down south send us more men." He breathed deeply, lowering his voice. "Not to mention the Others; they attack my Rangers more often than I care to admit."

He moved to offer Jeyne some of the wine as well, watching her take the cup from him, warming her hands on it. She smiled in gratitude before turning her face to the fire again, and Jon could tell she was a gentle creature; far too gentle for the harsh world she had ended up in. He could also see in her smile what had bound Robb to her in the first place.

"The Wall is no place for babies," he muttered when he went to stand next to the Blackfish again. "We need time to think this through, to come up with a solution that is best for everyone – especially this unborn child, who will become the most hunted child in the North if word ever spreads about its existence. But until we find a way, the Queen will be safe here; do not doubt that."

He motioned for the Blackfish to come to his desk and showed him maps of the lands beyond the Wall and those south of it. "Tell me what you know about the war of the Kings," he said. "Tell me what you have heard and seen; I've had but few ravens."

The two men sat down and talked until the steward came back. Jon instructed him to show Ser Brynden where he and his charge could stay, and to make the guests as comfortable as possible, especially the woman.

"Make certain the Queen stays indoors," Jon urged the Blackfish, once his steward was out of earshot. "And let her cover the swell of her stomach at all times; there are some Brothers among us who would defect in an instant when they find out who we are _truly_ hiding here." The Blackfish nodded once and followed the steward out of the room.

Jon walked over to where Jeyne was still sitting by the fire, folding his hands behind his back. "You will be safe here, Your Grace," he said, fumbling for words that would fit the situation this young woman found herself in.

"Please," Jeyne cut in, standing up. "Jeyne. My name is Jeyne." She smiled at him, but it was a sad smile indeed. "My husband never cared much for his title, and neither do I." She swallowed hard and chose to stare at the fire rather than him. "It is complicated, Lord Commander. On the one hand, I hate my title, as I am convinced my husband would be alive today if he hadn't been adorned with it. Yet, I cannot help but love it too, because without it I don't think Robb would ever have met or married me."

He winced slightly at hearing her say Robb's name. By not mentioning it out loud he had put distance between the Robb of Jon's memories and the one being slaughtered at the Twins and somehow that had made his death a little more bearable. Now that he stood here, listening to the woman who had spent week upon week trying to come to terms with a death that he himself didn't want to examine too closely, he suddenly had to fight to keep his stoic mask in place, to not show anyone how much Robb's demise affected him.

"But he _did_," Jon said, trying to shake the sadness. "And he _was_ the King in the North, which makes you his Queen." He dipped his chin briefly, aware of his stubborn hold on rules and customs and more things that did not really matter, but he knew it was the only way for him not to fly apart now that he had the only tangible, _twofold_ legacy of Robb Stark so close he could actually touch it.

Jeyne stood, pulling her furs around her shoulders, giving Jon an unreadable stare.

"I'll do anything to protect this baby," she said quietly. "And not for the titles of lords and kings, or even the connection to Winterfell. This child will be all I have left of Robb and he didn't even know about it when he left. The gods are cruel, Commander." She turned to leave, to join the Blackfish who was waiting for her outside. "Lord Commander," she said softly, sending a tentative smile his way.

"Jon," he interrupted. "You can call me Jon."

"But-"

"We are kin now," he continued. "And in private you should call me Jon."

"Jon," Jeyne said, trying the name tentatively. "Will it be all right if…" she halted, clearly searching for the right words, before asking "if I ask you to tell me about your childhood years with my husband?" She bit her lip, fumbling with the laces of her dress, an embarrassed flush threatening to rise on her cheeks. "He never really had the chance to… with the war and the fighting and… I just know so little…" He could tell she was close to tears and decided to end the matter by interrupting her again.

"Of course, my lady. Maybe it is time for me to remember as well."

Her eyes were full of understanding when she nodded at him and crossed the room, leaving it before Jon could say anything else. When he was certain everybody had left, he sat at his desk and buried his face in his hands, hoping silence and time would chase the images of perpetual snowball fights and first live-steel sparring and nightly fur-covered horror stories away, at least for a day or two, until he could no longer refuse the Queen.

**DACEY**

It was a biting cold day but the sun stood high in a clear blue sky and it gave everything a little more shine, a little more hope. Dacey had just fired a whole quiver of arrows at a straw puppet some fifty yards away and was taking a breather on a large boulder in the middle of the field, the fresh snow crisp under her feet, when she heard a sound behind her. Twisting in her spot, she watched Smalljon and Robb walk out the gate, and she gasped before standing up, joining them quickly. Meerya had packed Robb's clothes when Maester Ellard had moved him to the keep, now almost two moons ago, and he was wearing some of them, damaged though they were. Lady Ayla had offered to mend them, even to replace them, but Robb had thanked her, saying all he had need of was a new fur cloak (as he'd lost his trusted, wolf-adorned cloak at the Twins) and nothing else. Dacey knew he wore his ruined leathers almost as a testament to the fact he had survived, a sliver of defiance returning to her broken King.

"You're outside," she beamed, jogging up to the men, a bright smile on her face. The '_are you all right'_ was right behind it, but she bit her tongue – Robb hated being fussed over; especially by her, she suspected. He had looked at her with the most unreadable expression Dacey had ever seen on his face, an expression she never even thought him capable of, after she had removed her hand from his cheek on that fateful evening all those weeks ago. Now, he only nodded, searching her eyes for she did not know what.

"A raven arrived for you," Smalljon said when Robb clearly wasn't going to say anything, filling the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them. Dacey accepted the little strip of parchment, reading it quickly. '_We are waiting. Bring the boys home_' was all it said, but she knew exactly what it meant. It had felt like the riskiest raven she had ever sent but the way Maege Mormont had worded the message was enough for her to know it had reached her mother and none other. "She's waiting for us," Dacey muttered quietly; crumpling the parchment in her fist, ready to throw it on the nearest fire once inside. She looked at Robb. "We ride for Blazewater Bay as soon as you're able to."

Robb nodded, his eyes unfocused as he absent-mindedly touched the pommel of his sword, the one Gerad had allowed him to pick from his armory after Dacey had remarked he really should start practising again. It wasn't as heavy and formidable as his own broadsword had been, but given the circumstances Robb had chosen well.

"_Robb_," she hissed, and Smalljon was giving her a funny stare. "Focus."

"You can't talk to him that way," Smalljon spluttered, narrowing his eyes at her.

"She can," Robb spoke for the first time, staring at the snow on his boots. "Someone should be in charge. I sure as hell am not."

"You've just been brought back from near-death," Jon argued. "Of course you are not. But you are still–"

"I am no one," Robb broke in and started to walk away from them. Dacey wanted to cry out in frustration when she watched the defeated hunch in his shoulders; noticed the limp in his left leg. She could almost punch him when she realised that whenever he was making a tiny bit of progress he undid it again in a heartbeat – unable to shake his guilt _or_ live with it. At times like this she wondered if he wanted to live at all.

"Burn this," she told Smalljon, pressing the crumpled parchment into his palm. "Make sure there's nothing left." He nodded and she waited for him to reach the gates before she turned around to follow Robb. It was easy to catch up with him and when she touched his elbow he stopped dead in his tracks.

"I didn't mean to sound harsh," she said quickly before he would cut her off again. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I just want you to focus on what we're going to do. I _need_ you to be focused because our journey will be dangerous. We won't succeed if we're not paying attention."

"I know," he muttered, still looking everywhere but at her, fidgeting with his gloves, not saying anything else.

"What _is_ it?" she bit out, exasperated. "I don't know you like this; defeated and emotionless. Where is the King who inspired us all?"

"Dead," Robb said, finally looking up at her, his eyes as empty as the sound of that one word.

"You are _alive_," Dacey hissed. "You were saved; you lived through it. You should have died at the Twins, you should have died in the river, you should have died in Meerya's house. _Hell_, you should have died the second Maester Ellard started opening up each and every one of your wounds again, losing so much blood. But you _didn't_. You _lived_. The gods may be cruel, but they also speak to us. Isn't it about time you started listening?" She heaved in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, noticing how his eyes had gone from empty to slightly curious.

"I'm sorry," Robb said after what seemed like ages. "It's just that all I can see, waking or sleeping, is my mother drowning in her own blood and the score of bolts in Grey Wind's body and my brothers, blackened and burned, dangling from the gates of Winterfell. There is just no room for anything else, it seems."

Dacey thought back to the first few days after she had been rescued, the horrendous deliriums she had suffered while fighting for her life, and understood Robb perfectly. She also knew he was young, and realised it would be a lot harder for him to push the guilt and the pain and the memories away like she had learned to do at a very young age already, one of the few things a warrior she-bear could do to help retain her sanity on an island in perpetual fights with selfish, cruel raiders.

"What can I do?" she asked quietly as soft snow had started falling again.

"Nothing," Robb replied automatically, but Dacey shook her head.

"There is always something."

Robb stood frozen to the spot, his bright blue eyes glistening.

"I would hope to hear if Jeyne is still alive."

Dacey smiled tentatively, muttering a soft, "there are ways to find out."

"And I wish I knew what has happened to Grey Wind," he went on, his eyes immediately going out of focus. "I think he dragged me out of the river, even though he was just as wounded as I was."

"You remember this?"

Robb huffed out a short, sharp laugh. "I don't _remember_, exactly; I _dream_. Do you recall how I told you I didn't want any more milk of the poppy?"

She nodded and thought about the moment she told the Maester who did not think it was a good idea at all. "He is adamant," she had argued, trying to sound as persuasive as possible. Ultimately, between a drink of dreamwine and a number of vigilant nights on her and Smalljon's behalf, Robb had lived through the worst of the pain until it became slightly more bearable and he could do without the medication.

"Maybe Grey Wind survived," she tried carefully. "Maybe we'll find him, or he'll find us."

Robb offered her a distant smile before looking away.

"I miss my mother."

It should have made him sound like he was ten instead of his seventeen years, but Dacey heard the truth behind the words immediately. Of all his siblings, Robb had always been closest to Lady Stark, and of course she had been right by his side when everything in his young life was uprooted, from his crowning to the Twins. Lady Stark had been his compass for so long, even though he didn't always heed her, and that compass was gone now. She suspected he must feel adrift.

"I know," Dacey said, wishing she could say more.

"And why did you touch me?"

His eyes were alive now, Dacey noticed, and although she had to swallow hard around the question, she was glad for the emotion, this sign of life. The whole delicate affair had not been brought up between them ever since the day it happened; she had just walked away from the bed, telling him to go back to sleep; that he was just having a bad dream.

"I meant to comfort, you, Your Grace," she muttered, hoping to find shelter in courtesies and distance, now that she knew Robb hadn't been fooled despite his pain and his fever.

"That was all?"

"Aye." Dacey hoped her eyes didn't betray the lie that was falling from her lips.

"I see."

She expected to find incredulity in Robb's eyes, or relief.

Not disappointment.


	6. Chapter 6

**JEYNE**

Life at the Wall was cold.

Jeyne had experienced cold on her way North, but that was nothing like what she experienced constantly at the foot of this incredible structure against which Castle Black had been built. The only window in her room allowed her an undisturbed view of the massive blocks of ice that had been used to lay down the foundations of the Wall, and quite frankly, the size of those left her in stunned silence. She remembered how the Maester at the Crag had told her of the regions that made up the Seven Kingdoms, and of course he had explained to her the significance of the Wall and the Night's Watch. Her old Maester's words paled, though, in comparison to what she saw with her very own eyes right here and now, and the literal enormity of her situation made her question the metaphorical one a little less.

Being with child had not really agreed with Jeyne so far, as she had resorted to spending most of her time abed, constantly feeling the sickness that came with her condition – the dizziness and vomiting, and it felt as if a slight fever had gotten hold of her. It was the Blackfish who took care of her mostly, telling her stories of his long life and the wars and Kings he'd served, providing her with a most wonderful diversion. He brought her food and wine, the latter spiced in such a way that it almost settled her stomach, and he slept in the room next to her with a dagger under his pillow, he'd told her. She couldn't leave her own room without passing through his first, and instead of feeling cramped or trapped, it made her feel safe. Because apart from being able to see the Wall, the view from her only window also gave her a good indication as to what kind of men guarded this place, and even though Jeyne knew that they had all sworn an oath to protect the Wall and to not take wives or father children, the hulky, moody men all dressed in their gloomy garb milling in the courtyard down below gave her the chills nonetheless.

With the exception of Jon Snow, of course. The young Commander had made it a point to visit her chambers at least once a day, usually briefly and only to inquire after her health, but he called her Jeyne and offered her tentative smiles and squeezed her hand as a token of support. Earlier that day he had looked at her, all bundled up in her bed, shivering with fever and cold despite her blankets and furs, and he decided a visit from the Maester was warranted. It hadn't occurred to Jeyne that Castle Black even had a Maester, but when he arrived with his steward not half an hour later, she couldn't have been more surprised. She suspected Maester Aemon to be over a hundred years old and blind as a bat, his eyes the colour of milk; his skin all wrinkled and yellow. He spoke so softly Jeyne had to lean in to be able to hear him, but his voice was kind and his words wise. With him he brought his steward, his '_eyes'_ as he called the young man that trailed into her room behind the old man. He'd introduced himself as Sam and on looking at him, taking in his rotund face and body, Jeyne immediately understood why he was a Steward and not a Ranger.

"Oh," the ancient Maester had smiled, "Samwell here may strike you as a bit of an odd example of a Brother," and she had immediately felt caught, lowering her face to stare at the hands in her lap, wondering how in the world the blind Maester could tell, "but it was he who mixed your wine with spices in order to settle your stomach." She looked up, nodding at both men. "Samwell would make a fine Maester," the old man went on, "if only someone could convince him to travel to the Citadel."

"It is only about the farthest removed from the Wall, Maester," Samwell objected, and from the tone of their voices Jeyne could tell it had been a topic of their continued arguing for a long time. "My place is here, especially now." He smiled at her when he said the words and Jeyne felt an odd kind of warmth on hearing them. She knew immediately that this particular Brother of the Night's Watch wasn't the most likely candidate to protect her from the possible evils lurking beyond the Wall, but he was definitely the first one to give her and her unborn child a sense of peace.

Maester Aemon left after making sure Sam had mixed the right herbs into Jeyne's tea, and then it was just the two of them; him watching her sip the hot concoction, his face ruddy from the high fire in her room. "We will make sure you'll have the best fire in the Castle, Your Grace," he remarked. "Jon – I mean the Lord Commander ordered for plenty of wood to be stored just outside your quarters." She could hear him wonder why she still felt so cold then, but he never voiced the words, never once made her feel bad about the fact she wasn't made of sterner stuff.

"The Wall is no place for women," he quietly repeated Jon Snow's earlier words, his smile a permanent fixture on his face. "And it is certainly no place for those who are with child." She blushed, fussing with her furs to give her hands something to do. "Your secret is safe with Maester Aemon and myself, Your Grace," Sam said, nodding mostly to himself as she watched his surprisingly clever fingers collect what was left of the herbs on the table and putting them in a small silk pouch he produced from underneath his heavy, black cloak.

"I never knew your late husband," he added without looking up, "but he must have been a good man if the Lord Commander's grief is any indication."

"Are you aware then of – his grief?" she asked in disbelief, remembering just in time not to call the Commander by his first name in front of one of his men. Sam nodded solemnly, finally dragging his eyes up to look at her.

"He may be the Lord Commander now, Your Grace," Sam said, "but when we arrived here together, when I proved to be a terrible fighter, a craven even, he protected me and treated me like an equal. I'd like to think that somewhere underneath the ranks and titles we are friends." Sam swallowed and a deep frown marked his forehead. "It was me who brought him the raven, Your Grace."

Jeyne couldn't help but gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth as if to catch the sound.

"It's probably not my place to tell you this," Sam continued, "but when news of his father's death reached him, he was ready to forsake his oath and leave Castle Black and ride south to fight by his brother's side. If it hadn't been for me and Grenn and Pyp, who knows what would have become of him – your husband may have had to take his life, as it is custom for the Warden of the North to end any Night's Watch deserter's life. I always wondered if Jon had even thought of that when he took one of the horses and left the Castle that night." Sam's voice trailed off then and both seemed lost in their own thoughts.

"Anyway," he said then, clearing his throat. "Is the tea doing its work, Your Grace?"

"Please," Jeyne answered and took one of Sam's hands into her own. "Will you call me Jeyne – at least here, within the confines of these rooms? I know I am still the Queen in the North, and I know I carry a Prince or Princess inside of me, but for as long as I am in hiding, I would like it so much better if you would call me Jeyne, or _my Lady_ if you feel too uncomfortable with my name." When Sam nodded she gave him a reassuring smile. "And I do feel a little better," she hastened to add for it was true.

"Then I will take my leave," Sam said, getting up. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Your_ – my Lady_?" He seemed to be having an idea suddenly, for his eyes lit up and he walked back into the room to stand at the foot of her bed. "Would you like something to read maybe?" He was practically skipping from one foot to the other and Jeyne thought it was quite amusing. "We have an enormous collection of books, you know," Sam continued unfazed, "but most of the Brothers are no readers, and Maester Aemon is no longer able to, of course. The library had been quite forgotten until I came along to create some order in the chaos. I am sure there will be something to your liking down there; it might help you pass the time." Sam's enthusiasm was contagious, Jeyne found, and then she was struck by a thought.

"Is there a book about the North, you think?" Jeyne asked. "About the houses and the banners and the maps and customs and history? I need to learn about the land I am now a Queen of, even if the King who extended the title is no longer here." She faltered suddenly. Her exchange with Sam had been so comfortable and reassuring and the things he had told her about Jon and, indirectly about Robb, had been so heart-warming, that it had made her forget, even if only for a few seconds, that her husband was dead. Now the harsh reality hit her over the head with such force that she could barely stop her tears, but Sam had seemed to notice and he stepped even closer, grabbing her hand in a rather unexpected display of affection, squeezing it reassuringly.

"I think I may have just the book… _Jeyne_," he smiled, drawing out her name. "About everything you would ever have liked to know about the North."

"Thank you," she said and watched Sam retreat from the room once more. "Oh, Sam?" she asked as she thought of something, and he turned around. "Will you ask the Lord Commander if he can come and sit with me one evening?" She felt a blush rising and decided to ignore it. "I know his duties keep him rather busy, but I think there are things that he and I can tell each other."

Sam nodded, the understanding clear in his full-moon face, and Jeyne knew that her request was in the best of hands.

**DACEY**

He was picking at his food, Dacey noticed, but at least he was sitting at table, eating something, trying to carry on a decent, if somewhat clipped conversation with Gerad and his wife. She knew he was weary of saying too much and usually he only asked about their life, their family, how they had survived the time when the war had come so close to their doorstep. It was a good thing he didn't speak too much, Dacey thought, because even though she knew him well and could see he was trying very hard not to, his words were too formal, too well-spoken, too informed to come from a mere captain. Whether it had something to do with the fact she knew Robb so well, even better since she had become one of his _thirty_, which caused her to no longer be able to regard him objectively, she didn't know, but with every word he spoke she could only hear her King. When Gerad told them of the battles that had raged just down the hill, of the many bodies washing up on the riverbanks and the bands of raiders that threatened the roads and pillaged the towns, Robb had nodded solemnly, explaining how he understood their pain in the simplest of words, but in his eyes she could only see her King.

They never addressed the horrors the three of them had survived at the Twins, only the odd mention of a Frey search party here or there, as apparently Walder Frey was still trying to hunt down possible survivors. Dacey suspected he was planning to spin a different tale of what had happened at his Keep, and naturally he needed to make sure there was no one left to contradict him when he did. She often wondered if the Freys had realised the true nature of the broken windows in their great hall.

Robb's progress had been remarkable, Dacey had to admit, even though it was only his physical situation that seemed to be improving. Mentally, he still brooded too much to her liking, could still allow himself to lose his focus more hours than not, and the few ravens she had been able to send, stealthily inquiring about Jeyne Westerling's whereabouts, had been returned unanswered, causing him to retreat into himself with only Smalljon as a means of ultimately coaxing him back from wherever his mind wandered off to.

"We'll be leaving soon, Master Gerad," she said during a silent spell, cleaning her plate with a bit of bread. "We can all ride now and if we stay off the roads we can take plenty of rest. Also, we have outstayed your hospitality for long enough; you could well do without three extra mouths to fill."

Gerad smiled and nodded. "I do not mind the mouths I have to fill," he said, squeezing his wife's hand where it rested beside her empty plate. "But we understand you would rather leave this place. It holds nothing but horrors for you." He paused, looking at his wife. "We turned another search party away yesterday, making me wonder why they keep calling. We do not want to you to go, but you are right in assuming it is still dangerous for you here. I suspect Walder Frey means to find and silence every last possible survivor."

"We'll start preparing our departure on the morrow," Robb spoke up suddenly and Gerad's eyes widened fractionally at the unexpected finality in the words. Robb had never decided on anything before in front of her and Smalljon _or_ his host. For a long time she had thought it was a deliberate action on Robb's behalf because whenever he spoke there was always an air of authority surrounding him, but as time went by she realised he just felt too defeated to take command. "We will leave the day after," Robb added, swallowing the last of his wine, putting the cup down with a thump. Dacey wanted to smile but managed to keep her face passive, just nodding her agreement.

"Well then, I will tell kitchen to pack the provisions I promisedthe three of you, Rodrik," Gerad offered right away, regarding Robb with new interest. "And I shall ask Maester Ellard to collect all the medicine he deems necessary for you to bring on your journey." He glanced at Robb but his face betrayed nothing, Dacey noticed. Robb's progress had been amazing in the last few weeks, but everyone knew he was nowhere near free of pain yet. He never complained, though, never once asked for a reprieve, and she guessed his pain must be awful whenever he retreated to his chamber. She suspected it wasn't dedication to their cause so much as it was a means of punishing himself for living where others were dead; and the one time she had addressed the issue had caused him to look at her with such hurt in his eyes that she knew she'd guessed right and that he didn't like the way she was reading him so well. She had never brought it up again, but was left wondering what it would possibly take to lift this guilt that seemed to be crushing him.

They left the table shortly after and when Dacey returned to her room, to her surprise she found Robb already there. He was standing at the window, staring across the green valley, the mighty Trident just visible to the right. She closed the door, stood in front of it with her arms crossed and waited for him to speak. Somehow, she sensed something of the old Robb had returned tonight and she knew better than to force whatever he wanted to say out of him.

"We have to leave, it's no longer safe here," he said quietly, still staring out of the window, his shoulders tense. She nodded even though he wasn't looking at her. She thought how Ayla had finally managed to make Robb accept a new set of leather breeches and a linen and leather shirt that he had worn to table for the first time tonight. Dacey knew he was still secretly hanging on to his damaged clothes as she had not seen them leave the room after he'd tried on the new additions, and she remembered how he had tried to smile at Ayla when she mentioned she had guessed his size correctly. Dacey also remembered how at that very moment she herself had understood the woman's efforts all too well. He was still so young, her King; so young and damaged and never happy or smiling, and it made her heart ache. She had no gifts to give him, only her company and her memories to share, but she understood perfectly how the lady of the Keep went out of her way to try and conjure a smile onto Robb's face. Lately, it was all she ever wanted to do herself.

He slowly started to fill his new leathers out again, she noticed; not quite like he used to do, all ridged muscles and hard planes, but at least the painful thinness that had followed the blood loss and lack of food was slowly disappearing from his frame. "Don't ask me how I know," Robb's voice cut through the silence suddenly, "but we have outstayed our time here." He turned around and she was stunned by the emotion in his blue eyes, something he'd rarely shown since the rescue.

"Did you dream again?" she asked carefully but Robb just looked at her, his piercing eyes unsettling her, especially after they had seemed almost empty for so many weeks.

They were of equal height, she and Robb; something she had always liked about him. He didn't have to look up at her, like quite some men were forced to do and didn't like; nor did he have to look down on her, something a she-bear of House Mormont wasn't all too fond of.

She stepped away from the door and moved closer to him; so close they could touch. "Did you dream again?" she repeated softly, her hand lifting of its own volition to brush a lone finger along the ugly scar that ran from his cheekbone to his temple, barely missing his left eye. When she reached the tip of it she drew her hand back, left it hanging in mid-air and dropped her gaze, biting her lip. "Sorry," she muttered, frowning at the thought of what had possessed her again to touch him just like that. Before she could start to kick herself for it, though, his hand closed around her wrist, causing her head to snap back up, his blue eyes still trained on hers.

"Yes," he said, quietly, "or at least I think I did." Then his eyes cut to the fingers still closed around her hand, looking at it as if he saw it for the very first time, and he rubbed his thumb along her wrist once before letting go. She hated the fact she felt a blush form in her collar that slowly started travelling up her cheeks, thinking that no man should have the power to make her react in such a way, and she wished she could force the heat away before making a complete fool of herself in front of her King.

"Is it very ugly?" he asked and Dacey blinked, trying to understand what his question was about, realising then that he was referring to the scar she had just touched.

"At least you still have your eye," she chuckled, hoping he wouldn't take her innocent attempt at humour the wrong way. He nodded slowly, not really returning the smile. "Does it bother you very much?" she added softly.

He shook his head at that, shrugging. "It's just," he started, swallowing hard, "I have scars everywhere." He looked down at his clothed form before continuing. "Some of them are really disgusting and horrible and I was hoping the one you just touched was a little less gruesome."

"It looks fine," she hastened to tell him. "And the others I'm sure just need time." She shrugged slightly, offering him her kindest smile, dropping her voice to the barest whisper. "I am certain the Queen will not mind them at all, Your Grace."

"I doubt my Queen is still alive," Robb answered, his eyes empty again. "I was supposed to die, remember? They will not allow Jeyne to remain alive just so she can maintain even a figment of the memory of the King in the North."

Dacey looked at him, thinking of something suitable to say, but the words wouldn't come. Thoughts of how neither of them should give up on the Queen until they had solid proof of her death fought for prominence with her far more inappropriate thoughts of how Robb Stark was still devilishly handsome despite the scars and cuts and bruises that marred his face and body. She looked at his mane of curls and his fiery beard and scolded herself for thinking back to the moment the Maester was done redressing Robb's wounds and she had secretly allowed her eyes to travel the length of his body until she was utterly disgusted with herself. "No raven has returned with any news," she ended up saying, shaking her head briefly as if to chase out every wrong thought inside of it. "Nothing is certain."

When Robb opened his mouth to answer, a loud cry came from the corridor and before they could say or do anything, Smalljon flung the door open, sword in hand, eyes wide in terror. "We're betrayed!" he shouted and Dacey and Robb simultaneously drew their swords, following Smalljon as they thundered down the stairs to where Gerad's men were trying to make sure the main doors weren't breached.

"Freys!" Gerad called sharply, motioning for the three of them to follow him to the other side of the room, pulling a door open, ushering them into a corridor. "Far too many of them this time. I told you I didn't understand why they kept calling here." Gerad grabbed a torch from the wall as Smalljon slammed the door firmly shut, the four of them hurrying along the dark passage. Dacey checked to see if Robb was keeping up but he ran alongside Smalljon as if he had not been brought back from the brink of death a mere four months ago.

"Where are you taking us?" Dacey asked, a tiny voice in the back of her head nagging about how trustworthy their host truly was. She knew her suspicions were probably ridiculous, but every fibre of her being was attuned to betrayal and destruction now, and it felt as if those were everywhere.

"To the other side of the keep," Gerad answered, pointing ahead of him where a heavy oak door came into sight. "To the stables." They came to a halt in front of the door and Gerad fumbled with a huge set of keys on a copper ring, handing the torch to Robb. "There," he muttered, slamming the right key into the lock and turning it, going for the bolt but being stopped by Smalljon's large hand closing over his.

"Let me," Jon grunted, and instinctively Dacey pulled Robb behind her, who was just returning the torch to Gerad. Smalljon opened the door but a fraction and peered outside, the four of them listening for any sounds of alarm, footsteps or shouting – anything. "Let's go," he grumbled again, opening the door wider, allowing for Gerad to step outside first, a small courtyard coming into view.

"The stables are–" the Master started but Dacey shook her head, releasing a hissed _ssst_ so sternly that Gerad involuntarily clapped a hand over his mouth. "We'll follow you," she added, "just go." Robb was the last one to appear from the corridor, closing the door as quietly as he could, the metal hinges creaking nonetheless. When they were halfway across the yard and Dacey could actually see the stable doors they were headed for, a sound came from the left and she knew it would come to fighting in that moment. She spun around while still running, watching Robb and Smalljon do the same, calling out to Gerad to open the stable gates as the first of the Freys emerged from the darkness, swords glinting. "We'll be fine," she threw over her shoulder, watching Gerad to run for the door. "Just get us those horses!"

"Behind me!" Smalljon cried, pulling Robb unceremoniously, and they watched as the Frey men come up to them, swords in hand, the torches some of them carried throwing an eerie light across their faces. Then they were face to face and without thinking Dacey attacked, calculating their numbers and realising that between her and Jon they would be able to get Robb out of there. The sword still felt strange in her hand, but the memory of combat returned to her instantly and she hacked and slashed away at her opponents, showing them her wrath for what they had done to her and her people and her King; her fury providing the strength she had lacked ever since she'd escaped from the massacre.

"That's him!" a voice called out, a voice she knew she had heard before, and she spun around, another group of Frey soldiers coming from behind the keep on the other side of the courtyard. From the corner of her eyes she could tell Gerad had finally managed to unbolt the stable doors, watched him run inside, and then she turned back and was in the thick of it again. Before she could even lift her arm a blade that wasn't her own crossed the one coming towards her face with a loud clang, and she blinked at Robb as he withdrew from the clash only to stab her surprised opponent in the chest. "Behind you!" she yelled, barely registering how he had just saved her life, "one more!" Robb spun on his heels, ducked and slashed the knees of the man running at him, causing him to crash to the ground with a terrified scream.

"We have to kill them all!" Smalljon boomed, kicking his opponent in the chest, simultaneously pulling his sword from deep within the man's blood red belly. "No survivors! No one can know!"

Dacey shouted something, then a sword missed her right ear by a hair's breadth, and she stumbled backwards, trying desperately to remain on her feet. She fell against Robb's back, who grabbed her with one hand so she could find her footing, and then she fought again, driving the tall, ugly man in front of her back to where two others stood, hesitation in their eyes. The man whose voice had sounded so familiar was also there and Dacey recognised him instantly.

"Maaric!" she gasped, and the look in his eyes upon hearing his name told her she had guessed correctly. Meerya's brother had his sword in hand but before they could engage she had to move and slash at another man who was running towards her, giving Maaric just enough time to run.

Dacey!" Robb called out behind her and a quick look told her Gerad had led three horses out. Maaric was making for the stables as well, but there was little she could do when she still had two more Freys to fight off. Robb and Smalljon were with her then, fighting beside her; lunging and stabbing and slicing even though she could tell they were both exhausted, not to mention the blood coming from Smalljon's arm. It almost felt as if they were together on the battlefield again as they slowly but steadily killed off every last Frey in the search party, leaving not a single man alive to tell Walder Frey the three of them had escaped.

They ran and climbed the horses Gerad had brought out while the Master of the keep ran for the only gate, the one that led straight into the woods alongside the river, struggling to throw the oak doors open so the three Northern soldiers could pass. Then Maaric stormed out of the stables on horseback as well, crossing the yard to follow them – sword in hand.

"That's their king!" he screamed at Gerad, clearly aiming to turn the man into an ally. "Close your gates, man! That's Robb Stark!"


	7. Chapter 7

**DACEY**

Almost sick with fear Dacey looked at Gerad, trying to decide if she should spur her horse on and make for the gate that Gerad might well close, now that Maaric had told him the truth of the matter, or slow down to avoid the risk of crashing into it. Gerad threw the gates wide open, though, just in time for Smalljon and Robb to thunder past him, and he laughed as Dacey made up the rear. "I knew all along!" he called out at her, urging her on. "Make for the mill! The mill!" And then she stormed past Gerad with Maaric in her wake, hoping and praying the master of the Wilford would always remain as loyal to them as he proved to be now.

"Get him!" Robb roared, and all three of them rounded their horses at full speed towards Maaric who was cutting through the marshy field left of the road that led out of the keep, clearly making a run for it now that he had so blatantly given away his allegiances. He had gambled on Gerad and he had judged him wrong, and all he could do now was try to escape and make for the Twins – the only place he would ever be safe. Dacey spurred her horse on, going faster, well aware that hunting Maaric down was their first priority. They needed to catch him and make him talk and find out how many people he had told about his suspicions. Then they would slit his throat and be done with him. She would gladly do the honours, not having trusted him from the very moment she passed the threshold of Meerya's ruined home.

It took them longer than she had expected but then they were gaining on Maaric, driving him closer and closer to the woods – the one place where they knew they would have immediate advantage over him; where they would chase him like an animal and force him off his horse and end his misery. Maaric had clearly ridden a horse before, Dacey noticed, but they were riding bareback and it took a lifetime of horse riding to chase and attack at high speed like this, or to stay on when dodging branches and jumping tree trunks as soon as they would enter the forest.

Crossing the last stretch of open field, Maaric looked around, saw riders coming at him from three different sides and he could only go for the trees, slowing down significantly, and Smalljon screamed in anticipation, knowing it was only a matter of seconds now. It was Robb who got to him first, stretching his arm as far as he could before slamming his gloved hand into Maaric's collar and dragging him off his horse, smashing him to the ground with a dull thud. Dacey was the last one to have entered the forest and the first to reach the spot where Maaric was scrambling to get up. She slid down her horse just as Smalljon and Robb were wheeling theirs about, landing on her feet like a cat and drawing her sword faster than Maaric could blink, and she grabbed his hair, resting the point of her blade against his throat.

"Traitor," she panted, ignoring his gasps as she shook his head, causing her sword to nick his skin. "I should slit your scrawny little throat right here."

"Dacey!" Robb cut in, coming over with Smalljon by his side, the limp in his leg worse again, his breathing coming in sharp gasps. "Obviously this man would like to explain himself."

She pushed him to the ground forcefully, letting go of his hair, but keeping him at sword point nonetheless. "_Let_ him explain," she spat. "And _then_ I'll slit his throat."

"You'll do no such thing," Robb countered. "Not unless I tell you to."

Somewhere in a distant part of her brain, Dacey was amazed at how easy they seemed to all merge back into their respective roles; how instinctively they understood who would say what to make Maaric feel properly confused as to whom he could trust and what he should tell. He turned around on the muddy leaves, looking from one to the other, fear and defiance fighting for dominance in his eyes.

"How did you know?" Robb asked, and Dacey silently commended him for the calm, soft-spoken approach he took, the anger well hidden behind deceptively kind eyes. She could tell Maaric was already calculating on making it out of the woods alive and her fingers were itching to prove him wrong, especially when Maaric did not reply. Smalljon stepped in, grabbing him by his vest with one massive hand, shaking him viciously, dagger drawn.

"You'd better started answering me," Robb spoke again, still so calm that even Smalljon glanced over his shoulder as he held Maaric by the scruff of his neck. "My guards are much less patient than I am. So again: how did you know?"

Maaric shrugged himself out of Smalljon's grasp, eyeing Dacey's sword with a strange mix of fear and defiance in his eyes. "Your clothes," he said, searching Robb's eyes. "A clasp – it got stuck in the linens – a direwolf of copper and gold. I didn't know what it _really_ meant until you were gone and the first search party came by."

Dacey had no idea what clasp Maaric was referring to exactly, but she could tell Robb did, and the two of them locked eyes for the briefest of moments; a glance that told Dacey she would have to kill Maaric because he knew too much indeed.

"I asked a Frey soldier when the search party passed, asked him what they were looking for," Maaric said. "Maester Ellard had just taken you away, and when the soldier said something about finding Northerners who survived and needed to be tended at the Twins, I realised what they were _really_ looking for. Then I asked that soldier if he knew what the Young Wolf looked like but he told me Robb Stark had died at the Keep. When I pushed the point he described someone I knew my sister and I had dragged from the river, so I decided to lay low and wait for the best moment to reveal what I knew – that you were still alive."

"So you took the clasp and showed it to Walder Frey?" Robb went on. "Did he take it from you?"

Maaric stared at Robb, his breath coming out in nervous gasps. "My sister has it," he said. "She doesn't know. When one of the search parties passed our house again I decided to tell them and they took me along." He took a deep, steadying breath, never taking his eyes off Robb, and Dacey realised Maaric was only telling Robb the truth because he believed he would still walk out of the forest alive. "If I had taken the clasp to the Twins Walder Frey would have stolen it from me."

"You forget yourself," Robb cut in icily, and inwardly Dacey shuddered at the complete lack of emotion behind the words. In that instant she could see what Robb would be like once he _did_ find the strength to avenge himself – he'd be ruthless and merciless, the snarl of a wolf around his lips, indeed. She narrowed her eyes at him as Robb spoke again. "_You_ stole it from _me_."

"That might be, _Your Grace_," Maaric spoke in measured tones, placing too much emphasis on the title which caused Smalljon to take a threatening step forward again, and Dacey could hear the anger behind Maaric's words; anger that he feared to express but could barely tamp down. For the first time since they had started questioning him, Meerya's brother looked down, his breathing ragged. "We have nothing left. The house is a ruin, the lands are useless – everything was ravaged." He looked up again, anger and defiance clear in his eyes. "_You_ did that."

Robb was unmoved, his eyes blank and cold and Dacey could tell it was not the reaction Maaric had hoped for; in fact, Robb's passivity only angered him further.

"My sister has the clasp and I will sell it in time to prevent us from starving to death," he stated. "I hoped that by telling a search party meant Walder Frey would reward me for giving him the King in the North – without him knowing about the jewel."

"So you aimed to have both?" Robb asked slowly, lowering himself to look Maaric straight in the eyes.

"Wouldn't you?" the young man asked in return. "These are no times for the weak-hearted. I have mouths to fill and my family to protect. My mother is dead, and for all I can see – so is my father. Finding you was a blessing in disguise as soon as I realised who you were."

Dacey motioned for Smalljon to take her place keeping Maaric at sword point and she drew her dagger from its sheath. Maaric had nothing to lose, she knew, so they'd have to be fast once Robb gave the command.

"That didn't go quite the way you'd planned, now, did it?" Robb asked him, his eyes slowly going from blank to alive as he rose again, towering over their prisoner. "Your sister can keep the clasp, I hope she'll survive longer because of it. But you," Robb paused and everything in Maaric's posture betrayed how scared he was at the hands of these three seasoned Northern warriors, "you have made yourself a liability."

"I told you the truth," Maaric argued, his eyes going from Robb's to Smalljon's to hers and back. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

"You suggest I drag you along then?" Robb asked and the half-smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth caused Dacey to huff out a sarcastic little laugh as well. "Keep you as a hostage?"

"My sister saved your life."

"Your sister didn't betray me," Robb countered immediately. "And if she had I probably _would_ have kept her as a hostage." He stood as tall as he could, Dacey noticed, and squared his shoulders. "You, on the other hand, served your purpose." He turned around and walked away, uttering a cold, "Dacey."

When he mentioned her name the sound of it carried such finality that Maaric instantly knew why Robb had said it, and he whipped his head around to face her, only to be met with the sharp dagger in her hand. Dacey didn't even stay long enough to watch him sink to the ground and bleed out, she just felt a peculiar gratefulness for the fact that for once, Robb had allowed her to do his killing for him as she walked towards her horse.

Smalljon was cursing under his breath when they mounted, his shoulder bleeding through the fabric of his shirt, his hauberk thrown wide open to diminish the pressure. Now that the feverish rush of the fight and the chase and the killing was starting to dwindle down, realisation as to what had happened and what was still to come fell over them quickly and overwhelmingly, leaving them exhausted and in pain. They had all hoped for a relatively safe exit from the Wilford, under the guise of night and packed with as much food and supplies as their horses could carry. Now they only had the dark of night and their horses, but no food and definitely no Maester to see to these new wounds. Dacey was especially worried for Smalljon as the wound to his shoulder kept bleeding profusely and they had no way of treating him apart from scorching it closed, if they could make fire and find the proper materials. As Robb climbed on top of his horse, Dacey noticed his movements were also hampered by pain and she vowed to get them to the mill Gerad had mentioned as fast as she could.

"When I left the Wilford, Gerad mentioned we make for the mill. I know of it, it's not too far from here," Dacey said, bringing her horse alongside Robb's, and she threw him a look, silently asking if they should run the risk of staying in the area at least one more night.

"We need to treat his wounds," Robb said, patting his horse's neck, looking at Smalljon as he was coming towards them. "And if Gerad wanted us to head for that mill, then maybe he'll bring us some supplies for the journey. If he turns out to be a traitor… Well, I'd want to see that mill first before we decide to stay there; see how we can protect ourselves – escape from it if needs be. If it's a death trap we'll retreat into the woods again to see to Jon's wounds ourselves – and my own." He offered Dacey a wry smile and touched the place of the wound that Maester Ellard had always worried most about once he was being taken care of at the Wilford. She widened her eyes, unable to stop herself from leaning in and raising her hand to touch she did not know what, as the wound was covered by his heavy hauberk, and Robb threw her a surprised if not slightly bemused look. He regrouped quicker than she could as he sat up straighter on his horse, his eyes slightly narrowed as he spoke again. "We do not have much of a choice, wouldn't you agree?" Dacey nodded. "I say we hazard it." He wheeled his horse about and looked at her over his shoulder, inviting her to take the lead and find that mill.

Dacey dipped her chin at Robb, and for the very first time in all the moons that had passed, she felt like she was acknowledging the presence of her king again.

**JON**

Sam had told him the day had not been particularly easy on Jeyne, that she had vomited so much that not even a cup of water would stay down. She tried to be brave, his steward could tell, but feeling sick and miserable made it difficult for her and the tears had come easy all day. Jon pulled his cloak closer about him before leaving his room and crossing the yard towards hers, as snow had fallen in fat flakes all day, covering the world in a thick, silent blanket. At least her quarters would be very warm, he thought, nodding to the only two Brothers he ran into, probably on their way to stand watch, a quiet '_Lord Commander'_ falling from their lips as they passed.

The Blackfish was in a seat by the hearth, his figure somewhat slumped until Jon closed the door with a dry click and the old man slowly pushed a small knife Jon hadn't even noticed back into its sheath. He stood up, bowing slightly.

"None of that here, Ser," Jon said, shaking his head as he approached, dipping his chin at the dagger on Ser Brynden's belt. "I see my good-sister is well protected."

"She is the Queen," the Blackfish replied simply. "She is all the North has left."

"She is the Queen," Jon repeated slowly, staring at the door to her room. "I hear today was difficult."

Ser Brynden nodded. "Her grief worsens her situation, I believe." He took a good long look at Jon, and Jon felt himself shrink under the formidable knight's gaze. He knew the Blackfish was Lady Stark's uncle, and perhaps not the best-loved one in the Tully family if his added name was anything to go by, but even though he was old and somewhat bitter, there was not an inch of him that was not strong or true or did not command respect.

"You do have the Stark colouring, if I may be so frank," the man spoke suddenly and Jon looked up at his face. "Unlike my great-nephew."

Jon was well aware he had decided to visit Jeyne's rooms tonight to tell her more about Winterfell and Robb, but somehow it was still hard for him to deal with even the slightest of references to his brother.

"He took after his mother, yes," Jon remarked, wondering how much the man knew of the true nature of the relationship between him and Lady Stark. "The red hair, the blue eyes… It must have been strange for my father, to have his bastard resemble him so much more than his true-born son."

"Robb may have had more Tully in his features," the Blackfish said, sitting down again to resume his vigil, staring into the fire. "But the bitter cold of the North was always in his eyes. The King was a true Stark."

Jon nodded, setting his jaw as he walked across the room and knocked on the door.

The Queen was in her bed, a number of pillows propped behind her back, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders. "Commander," she smiled, but Jon could tell the smile was strained and tired – could tell the girl in the bed was frail and exhausted. He closed the door and stood in front of it.

"If this is not a good time for us to talk," he started, feeling the heat of the room seep through his cloak and gloves, "I can return another night."

"No, no," Jeyne sat up, rushing the words out. "Please." She dropped back against the pillows, a pleading look on her face. "I have felt awful today, it's true. But your words will make me feel better in the end, I am certain of it." She motioned for the chair next to her bed and he unclasped his cloak, draping it across the bed frame. Sitting down, he pulled his gloves off, one by one, loosening each finger before removing it. He felt her eyes on him, on his movements, and so he stilled his hands and looked up at her.

"Robb's were almost identical," she said quietly, picking the glove he had already taken off up from the bed. "Riding gloves, they are. Able to withstand the worst cold." She smiled at herself, then looked up and laid the glove back in its previous spot. "I'm not sure I have yet endured the worst cold out here," she added, her eyes sad and moist, "but inside of me the cold is terrible."

"I miss him too," he said, and the words had mostly escaped him, he hadn't meant to tell her this. He had come over to talk to her about his time at Winterfell, about the great castle and the half-siblings that lived there with him. He had expected to feel melancholy about them, the stories he shared with Robb. He had not expected to immediately share with her the one thing that made it so hard for him to function every day, ridiculous as it was, for he had said his goodbyes to Robb so long ago now.

She looked at him and he wondered what was going through her mind, her eyes searching his face. She was a pretty girl, this Jeyne Westerling, he thought. A very southron girl, though, in all her mannerisms and appearance, and not the type he had ever thought his brother would prefer. Apparently, his thoughts were in his eyes because she smiled apologetically as she spoke to him; softly, a little embarrassed.

"He married me for honour," she explained and Jon flushed, feeling caught out. "He married me the morning after, saying something about not wishing to leave me with a possible bastard as he knew what a bastard's life could be like." She shrugged a little, giving him an unreadable look. "I'm guessing he was referring to you."

Jon nodded slowly, remembering how Robb had always hated the difference between the two of them, especially when they grew older. Maybe that was why his brother's death had affected him so much more than he had ever anticipated – Robb treated everybody like he wanted to be treated himself, which was as much to his virtue as it was his downfall. Walder Frey had never been a forgiving man.

He swallowed hard. For weeks now he had tried to fathom how scared Robb must have been in his final moments. Word had reached him how the King and his guard were forced to enter the hall of the feast unarmed, how Grey Wind had been confined to a pen, how totally and utterly defenceless they had all been in their final moments. As a warrior, a ranger of the Wall, a fighting man, Jon could only guess at the levels of vulnerability Robb must have felt once it became clear it was all a trap. He had cried for Robb once, but the sudden vision that hit him now made him realise he still had some unshed tears left for his brother.

"Robb was the better swordsman for a long time," he said suddenly, forcefully shaking his grief off, pushing it to the deepest corners of his conscience, leaving it for later scrutiny. "He grew faster than I did, always hungry." He smiled as he remembered. "He had the upper hand because of that. But later, when I had already made up my mind to join the Night's Watch and I was practising while the aim of becoming a Brother was always on my mind, there was really only one opponent in Winterfell who could bring me to my knees." He looked at Jeyne, her eyes transfixed on his, her always fidgety hands idle in her lap. "Robb was a clever fighter," he murmured, thinking back. "My technique was always better, I was quicker too, but Robb always had something unpredictable up his sleeve – I never truly knew what to expect." He chuckled suddenly, realising how talk of their swordsmanship was easily the best and safest place for him to start reminiscing. "He won all his battles for a reason, my Lady: the Lannisters never knew what to expect either."

"He took an arrow when he stormed my father's castle, you know," Jeyne offered thoughtfully, her eyes unfocused, and Jon thought it could well have been her closest encounter with fighting and battle and the actual war. "It was the most horrid thing I'd ever seen when our Maester broke the bolt and cut the arrowhead out of my husband's flesh. I was made to leave the room right then, but I will never forget the scream."

He thought about it for a while, listening to the crackling in the hearth, the warmth emanating from it seeping into his bones.

"I'm sorry," Jeyne went on, a pained expression in her eyes. "I shouldn't have brought that up, I suppose."

"It is quite all right, my Lady," Jon smiled. "He and I suffered a number of wounds together. Blunted swords can be just as dangerous as live steel." He remembered some pretty nasty wounds they had suffered throughout their years in the practice yard together, wounds that had bled and festered and stunk but that had eventually closed and healed and given them tall tales to tell Sansa or Jeyne Poole or even Arya, but somehow he decided to refrain from sharing these with Robb's widow.

"Is there anything in particular you would like to know about?" he asked instead, not really knowing where to take the conversation. Jeyne's eyes lit up, though, so he gathered he had asked the right question.

"Tell me about Winterfell," she spoke immediately. "About the winter town and the glass gardens and the hot springs. Oh, and the godswood," Jon raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing on his lips. "Samwell gave me a book about the North," she explained bashfully. "Robb did tell me a few things, but I would so much like to know more." She had pushed the covers away in her enthusiasm to relay the question and Jon could see the swell of her stomach, the babe well on its way for some four moons now, Maester Aemon had estimated. He wondered how they would deal with the situation once the Queen was to deliver, how they could keep it all a secret. Jon knew he could scarce send her on the road now, but sending her away with a newborn in her arms was an equally bad decision. Fact remained, she couldn't stay at the Wall – a safe haven had to be found for her, and soon. He swallowed, pushed the thought from his mind for the time being and sat up a little straighter.

"Winterfell is built on a giant hot spring," he started, smiling despite himself as he remembered. "The water is piped through the walls and floors of the castle, keeping it nice and warm, even in the long winters. Robb and I, we were both born at the end of a winter, I have no recollection of it, but father told us how the snow could build for yards and yards until doors would no longer open and thatched roofs would collapse under the snow's weight." Her eyes went wide. "Actually, my first memory of Robb is of him playing in the snow and how he was completely covered in it, head to toe," Jon went on, thinking how his _last_ memory of Robb was also one of him in the snow; fat flakes of summer snow that had caught in his furs and his hair, a winter king indeed.

He swallowed hard and ploughed on, told her of Winterfell and the glass gardens, of the people who left winter town in summer and the weirwood tree in the godswood. He told her of Sansa and Arya and how two sisters couldn't be more different. He told her of Bran and his climbing and of Rickon, who had always looked up to his eldest brother with something close to idolatry. He told her of their father, Lord Stark, and how the man was a Northerner through and through – the chill of winter always in his eyes. He told her how Eddard Stark had tried not to let Jon's descent come between his sons and how Robb, especially later, when they were older and somewhat wiser, had always made it a point not to allow anyone to insult his bastard brother, at least not within his earshot. Robb had drawn his sword over it once, he remembered, and he told Jeyne about the time Theon had made a truly cruel joke about bastards right in Jon's face, making Robb so angry that he had come up to Theon from behind and rested the tip of his sword against the skin of Theon's neck, telling him that if he would say such a thing again he wouldn't hesitate to push straight through. Right at that moment Ser Rodrik and Lord Stark had walked out onto the court yard and Robb had been caught and scolded for doing something that was strictly prohibited. Robb had borne his punishment without so much as a flinch, staring down Theon and his smug face as he was forced to follow his father inside – refusing to apologise.

"I brought him my supper that evening," Jon finished the tale, Jeyne's eyes wide and filled with pride. "He was always too honourable and headstrong anyway." Before he could truly fathom what he had said, he watched Jeyne's face drop and realised that he had chosen the wrong words. "My apologies," he started but she lifted her hand before she did her face and Jon fell silent.

"None of that," she said and the smile on her face was as strong as she could possibly muster. "Robb was very headstrong. He was advised not to marry me on a number of occasions; was even told to have the marriage annulled, but he refused each and every one of those voices – even his lady mother's." She frowned and stared at her hands. "He was headstrong because he felt he should do the honourable thing and I know that, in the end, it was what got him killed."

**ROBB**

"You'll be fine," Robb said quietly, pulling off his glove to brush the sweaty hair out of Smalljon's face. "Dacey is outside, looking for herbs that will help you sleep – she won't be long now." He kept making shushing sounds and slowly Jon stopped shaking underneath his furs. Robb took off his cloak and folded it on top op Jon's, adding to the warmth, and even though he was cold to the bone himself, shivering as he felt the trickle of blood that had been seeping from one of his old wounds constantly, he ignored it with iron determination and looked into Smalljon's eyes.

"You survived the Twins," he observed with a smile, settling in next to his friend, a hulk of man, the heir of House Umber, now reduced to a shivering, bleeding, grunting patient. "You'll survive this."

Robb's free hand had not stopped putting pressure on the wound, trying his best to stay the blood until Dacey would come back and they could bind him; how, he didn't know yet, but he was certain Dacey would have an idea.

There had been Maesters in his army, wherever they marched, the wise men would follow. He had visited the wounded after every one of his battles, but he knew nothing of healing. He remembered Maester Luwin talking about it at lessons in Winterfell, usually after Jon had asked about it, but for the life of him he couldn't remember any of the old Maester's words now. He'd liked history, the stories of old, the battles between the great Houses, the Dragons and the Kings. He'd always liked to read and hear about them. He would usually make an effort to pay attention to all the other subjects the Maester would address, but his heart was never truly in those. Looking at Smalljon's face now, twisted in pain, he wished he had been better then, for he certainly wasn't of any help now.

It wasn't as if he had felt very useful ever since he had woken up at the Wilford. Most of the days he was there all he wanted was for his wounds to fester and rot so he would get worse and die and finally be done with it, but it hadn't happened. He had been lying in the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move without feeling the most excruciating pain, and he had prayed for that end – wanting nothing but to join his father and his mother and have it end – but his death wouldn't come. He had watched Dacey come into his room, had noticed the dagger at her belt, had decided he would wait until he was strong enough to grab it and end his life himself, but he hadn't gone through with it.

Dacey had always been there by his bedside, he had come to realise over time. Whenever he woke up, there she was. Whenever he wanted something – a drink of water, a clean bandage, a new poultice or a simple wash – there she was. He had known Dacey ever since he could remember. As a child he had danced with her in the Great Hall of Winterfell, after his father had once summoned all the banners and the she-bears of Bear Island had come at once. Of course she had towered over him, a woman near twenty, whereas he was but a boy of one-and-ten. She had always been kind to him, though, even when he barely reached her chest and he had coloured bright red when she remarked how his view of her breasts must be a wonderful one for any boy his age. She had kissed his cheek, dipping in a neat little curtsy before parting with him, and the next morning at breakfast had come to make her apologies. He had smiled and stammered that she had essentially been quite right and she shouldn't feel the need to apologise; and then they had sat together and she'd regaled him with stories of Bear Island, and the fighting that took place there because of the Ironborn who kept raiding it.

Dacey had been the first one to offer her services for his Thirty and he had accepted her without a backward glance, not the least bit interested in what the men in his armies might think of a woman warrior in his personal guard. She had saved his life on so many occasions that he had lost count, but while lying in one of Gerad's bedrooms at the Wilford, watching her tend to him, helping him eat or drink or cleaning up whatever mess he had made in those early days, he knew he couldn't betray her like that by stealing her dagger to slit his own throat. He'd suffer through whatever the gods had in store for him, he had decided then and there, and wouldn't end himself, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn't honour that had kept him from taking his own life, as honour had brought him nothing but pain and betrayal and death – he was more than done with honour. It was gratitude, he guessed, pushing down harder on Smalljon's shoulder to keep the man pinned to the floor. Gratitude and admiration and respect. He couldn't hurt her like that, couldn't find it in him; he'd be just as much of a monster as Walder Frey.

Just when he started to wonder what took her so long, he heard a sound and he slipped from his thoughts. The mill had been easy to find, and as it was situated on a ridge with a ten-foot drop straight into the river, they had decided to stay the night; the Trident being an excellent means of escape if things would turn sour. Moreover, Smalljon couldn't' travel any further, they needed to tend to him first, so Dacey had helped him carry Jon inside, had checked the wound and told him to apply constant pressure – and it almost made him smile how she was ordering him around again – and had left for the nearby woods to collect some herbs that would alleviate at least some of their comrade's pain.

"Dacey?" he spoke under his breath; the sound not quite a whisper, but no answer came. He started doubting if he had actually heard something, but then there it was again and he felt his breath hitch in his throat – _this is a familiar fear_.

When the sound came a third time, Smalljon uttered a soft whimper, and then everything went black.


	8. Chapter 8

**DACEY**

Robb's brow was shining with a cold sweat that she kept dabbing at with the mostly clean rag she had found in the abandoned miller's quarters upstairs. She had torn the cloth in two to also use it to bind Smalljon's wound as tightly as possible to stop it from bleeding too much, and, unlike Robb, Jon was now resting rather peacefully. His breathing was admittedly shallow, but regular, and the bleeding seemed more or less quenched for the time being. The herbs that she had made him chew had done their work, she knew, when the shivering abated after a few minutes and sleep took over. He did need someone to stitch the reopened wound, though, because although the skin had closed, the connection was fragile at best, and she secretly hoped for Gerad to make good on his unspoken word to meet them at this mill.

Robb however, was quite another story. She had returned to the dilapidated mill to find his shuddering body on the floor next to Jon and she had tried to wake him from his trance until Smalljon needed her more and she had to leave him to his convulsions. He had calmed after a while, his body growing slack and heavy like the dead, and once she had made certain Jon was reasonably comfortable, enough at least to tide him over till the morn, she had crawled over to her King and had pulled him into her arms – trying, fruitlessly, to wake him. She had then gone over those parts of his body she could more or less reach, had wormed loose the straps of his hauberk, pushing the garment out of the way and finding none of his old wounds open, apart from the one near his shoulder – the one Maester Ellard had always worried about the most. It was bleeding, but not alarmingly so; a red, narrow thread oozing out at intervals, and she had torn the rag in two again to push the cleanest part against the wound. The angry red of the blood stood in sharp contrast to the pale skin of his chest, the hard, broad planes of it ravaged with scars and bruises and _war_. She ran her hand under his shirt, closing her palm over the wound Robb had taken at the Crag; felt the ridge of the scar under her fingertips and remembered how badly he had suffered then, in that old, damp Westerling keep; how blood poisoning was a constant threat, and how it had taken him weeks to recover. She had guarded his door then as she had guarded it at the Wilford, and every time Robb had fought against odds and expectations, not to mention his guilt, which was exactly why she had followed the boy king into war in the first place.

He wasn't a boy anymore, though, she thought with a smile, sliding the flat of her palm across his chest, the russet hair tickling her skin. He was a battle hardened soldier now, all naivety and innocence lost the moment his father was beheaded in Kings Landing and his son had to start wearing the crown and with it the vengeance of the North. She pushed the rag into place a little firmer and pulled the linen of his shirt across it, flushing a little when she realised the intimacy of what she was doing. She watched his face, peaceful now, his breathing evening out, thinking how he was still handsome, even though his face had not exactly escaped the ruin of Walder Frey's arrows and blades. The scar on his jaw was a long, thin line, still red and jagged but it was one of those scars that would mostly fade with time and probably leave a narrow, sunken mark. It made her think back on the conversation they were having right before Smalljon barged in to warn them of the Frey soldiers at the gate, and again she wondered if Jeyne was still alive and if Robb would ever see his Queen again.

Dacey silently vowed to keep Robb safe until he did, her duty as his guard and his friend. With a start she realised her cheeks were no longer burning despite cradling the King in her arms. She was holding _Robb_ rather than the King; a soldier, just like her. He had survived the Twins, like she had, and although he was still her King, Robb was her friend now more than anything. A friend she would keep safe until he could fend for himself again, or until he called for her to help him fight those who had done them wrong. A friend who, right now, she could only hold and watch; like she watched Smalljon sleeping quietly beside her.

In the silence of the night she was acutely aware of the sounds surrounding the building; sounds that belonged to the dark. Animals mostly, she hoped, some of which would probably come this close to the mill as it was positioned near the river. If _people_ would find them here she knew they would be in trouble. There was no way she could defend them alone and all she could do was pray to the gods they would be granted this night undisturbed.

When there was a lull in the noises coming from outside, the wind calming down for a few heartbeats, the constant lapping of the river below her somehow easing up slightly, she could suddenly hear wolves howling off in the distant woods. The sounds were long and desperate and it made her wish for the north; a feeling of both sadness and happiness that she wondered at, turned over in her mind, thinking of her mother and her sisters, of snow and cold and home. The second she realised wolves usually didn't prowl this far south, she jerked from her thoughts only to find Robb's bright blue eyes staring up at her.

"Robb," she breathed his name, wondering where she had left his title now that he found himself in her arms with his hauberk thrown wide open, the laces of his shirt partly undone. He looked curiously at her, then lifted his head to look at himself, and Dacey got the distinct impression he was surprised to be waking up, coming back from wherever he had been.

"What happened?" she asked again, feeling oddly bereft when he clambered into an upright position, squinting his eyes, clearly trying to get used to the darkness.

'There are people coming," was all he said and he sounded scratchy and exhausted, bringing up shaky hands to adjust his shirt, turning his back to her. "Draw," he ordered as he moved to stand, unsheathing his own sword but groaning with the movement of his arm. His shoulder was clearly still hurting; his recent wounds too serious to truly heal in the time span of only a few moons. Her hand had been on the pommel of her sword the very moment he'd uttered the word _people_, though, and they both instinctively stepped away from Smalljon and towards the only door, Dacey the one to carefully peer outside to check for the people Robb had warned about.

Outside, it had gone pitch dark, the only light coming from the moon that slipped from behind heavy clouds occasionally, the glow of it echoing off the water to their left. It hit her how she didn't even question the truth of Robb's words, how she immediately and perfectly believed him when he claimed there were people outside. In the course of their campaign, when they were still fighting to free and later avenge Eddard Stark, Robb had often shown knowledge of the terrain that he couldn't possibly know about. It had often struck her as odd, and upon asking her mother, Maege Mormont had shrugged, almost as if the answer was too simple to give much thought, saying Robb was a Stark with a direwolf, and had left it at that. Dacey hadn't quite known what to make of her mother's words, but had never doubted her King's predictions again. Opening the door of the mill a fraction wider, her mother's words still going through her mind, she realised that Robb must have had one of his dreams again, like the ones he sometimes had while recovering; the ones that had urged them to speed up their departure from the Wilford; and that this one must have been much more intense for him to enter into a fit like the one she had walked in on earlier that evening.

"Anything?" Robb asked from behind her, and she shivered when she felt his breath ghosting the skin of her neck. Then he was gone again, walking back to Smalljon who had started muttering in his sleep. She peered out once more, trying to make out shapes or shadows moving in the darkness of the night, but, apart from the sway of the trees in the soft breeze, there was nothing. Robb came up behind her again, his hand on her back.

"Check up on him," he whispered, nudging her shoulder. "I'm going out."

"No," she hissed immediately but Robb only threw her a questioning, if not slightly angry look and she knew it was not her place to tell him where to go or not. "What if something happens to you?" she asked, trying to make him see sense though.

"I'll be fine," he reassured her, but his eyes were distant. "Keep him safe," he added with a jerk of his chin in Jon's direction, an edge of urgency creeping into his voice. "We're going to need him." Without explaining himself any further, Robb pushed the door open far enough for him to be able to step outside, and she closed it behind him before going back to kneel at Smalljon's side, her sword still drawn.

After what could have been nothing more than a few minutes that felt like ages she heard muffled voices, Robb's definitely one of them, and the next thing she knew was the door being opened and Maester Ellard walking in. Robb came in after him, his sword sheathed, a complete saddle in his arms. "I'll get the others," he muttered before dropping his load to the floor and walking back out.

"Help him, please," Ellard said softly, kneeling by Smalljon's side, getting flint and oil to light the torch in his hand. "I'm going to tend to him and leave again. You need to move as quickly as possible; there was another search party looking for the one you killed and I don't think they believed a single word of the lie Gerad was spinning. The area will be rife with Frey soldiers soon – you'll have to ride before dawn – and ride hard. I'll patch him up, leave supplies, _bind_ him to one of the saddles for all I care; but whatever you do – get out of here."

Dacey spent the next minutes unloading Ellard's cart, two more saddles that she left with Robb, who rigged their horses quickly and expertly, never saying a word, and Dacey could see how tired he was in the tense, rigid line of his shoulders. While packing the supplies in neat little bundles that would fit their saddles, she kept a furtive eye on him, realising he hadn't slept since their escape from the Wilford, as his previous state of unconsciousness could not have given him any real respite, something he still needed more than anything – as he was still recovering from his multiple wounds.

Once the horses were saddled, they started tying things into place, including three extra swords – bastards, she noticed – that fit nicely under the saddle flaps, well-hidden from sight until they were needed; extra furs that Robb had cleverly used as saddle blankets for the horses as the threat of snow was steadily building, not to mention the fact they were headed north; and rolls of canvas, tied to the back of all three saddles, in case they couldn't find any shelter. Dacey tied the food supplies into three separate bags that could be slung across their horses' backs, handing bits of bread to Robb and the Maester before taking some herself. It was dry and a little stale, but she was hungry and cold and if they were going to be riding the second Jon woke up, she needed every bit of nourishment she could get.

"Did you dream again?' she whispered, even though she was well out of Ellard's earshot, and Robb turned around, eyes wide, his fingers still busy tying up the last flagons of water and wine, his fingers getting clumsy with fatique. She moved to stand next to him and took over, handling the leather straps with practised ease, never taking her eyes off him. He nodded, dropping his gaze. "What happened?" she asked again, her curiosity getting the better of her. "What do you dream of?"

Robb didn't answer, just picked up another flagon and handed it to her before moving to collect his cloak from where Smalljon was lying, as Maester Ellard seemed nearly done stitching the wound back up. When he moved to stand next to her again, adjusting the clasps of the heavy cloak around his shoulders, he winced and she lifted her eyebrows. "The Maester should look at you as well," she suggested but Robb shook his head. "I've had worse," he said quietly. "Trust me."

"Oh, I know," she smiled, patting the straps as they were finally put into place, a quick flash of Robb's body covered in open, ugly wounds going through her mind. "What did you dream of, Robb?" she asked again, adding his name on purpose. "You made a frightening sight just now. What was going on?"

"Don't know," he answered and shrugged again, this time without the wince of pain on his face, and Dacey had to commend him for his restraint. "These dreams I have had for ages and they all amount to the same thing. I'm not myself; I'm inside someone else. I walk with them, see with them; I always smell blood and earth and winter. The dreams make me think of home, of the Wolfswood, of Bran and Rickon." He swallowed thickly, she saw, and she had to fight the urge to wrap her arms around him.

"My mother once told me that you probably have a close connection to your wolf," she ventured, referring to the words her mother had spoken so long ago. "Do you dream of Grey Wind when these spells hit you?"

"Not of," Robb muttered, turning his head, checking the harness of his horse again. "_As._"

He walked away abruptly, almost ashamed of what he had told her, and she wondered why, tossing his words over and over in her mind. She turned to look at him but he was already talking to the Maester in hushed tones, his back to her, and so she walked to the door, checking if they were still alone, if it was still safe to leave. They had pushed the Maester's cart out of sight, and there was nothing out there but the steady rush of the water and the wind in the treetops. She realised with a start that the wolves had stopped howling in the distance, and it made her think of Grey Wind again, wondering if he was still alive, believing he had to be – for Robb's sake. Before she could think any more on the subject, though, Robb was at her side, touching her shoulder.

"He's awake," he said under his breath. "I told the Maester to use his salts. We cannot wait any longer – we ride."

**JON**

"How is she?" Jon asked without looking up from his papers and maps.

Sam pulled off his gloves before removing his cloak and when he had put them away he stood awkwardly in front of Jon's desk. It wasn't until he started shuffling from one foot to the other that Jon finally looked up, only to give him one of his typically exasperated looks.

"You can sit down," he sighed, a hint of a smile playing somewhere around the corners of his mouth. "You don't have to wait for me to tell you to."

"You're the Lord Commander now, Jon," Sam argued. "It's not my place."

"Oh, shut up," Jon grumbled, looking at him as he folded the papers away. "You're my steward, my scribe, my _librarian_. It won't be long for you to become Maester Aemon's unqualified but undoubtedly highly talented successor. You can sit when and where you want to when there are no other men around." Jon took a deep breath. "Is this understood? Because we seem to be having this discussion every time you step in for your daily updates."

Sam dragged a chair closer to Jon's desk and sat down with a smile. "She is still feverish," he started, recounting his half hour meeting with the Queen that morning. "But she holds her meals, asks for more, sits up in bed and reads the books I bring for her." He shrugged. "Her mother's stomach is severe, but I think she's seen the worst of it."

Jon nodded, thinking that his only experience on the subject was Lady Stark's pregnancy with Bran and Rickon. He wondered suddenly where the boys were; if they had even survived the sack and burning of Winterfell; if they knew their mother had died. He swallowed. There was no love lost between him and Catelyn Stark, but the woman had had to endure the unjust killing of her husband and the loss of all of her children in some form or other in the months leading up to her own cruel murder, and he couldn't help but feel a cold and terrible sadness encompassing his heart.

"Will she deliver the baby at the Wall, Jon?" Sam asked, his eyes wide and questioning, addressing the subject they had spent weeks avoiding now. They both knew it was going to be impossible to keep the secret from their brothers, and what was more, winter was truly coming and there wasn't going to be a single baby that would survive that particular kind of cold in the harsh and draughty shelter of Castle Black.

"Can she be moved?" Jon wanted to know, not yet prepared to share with Sam how he had been racking his brain trying to come up with a solution. "She fell ill the moment she arrived here; I wonder if she'll survive the cold and the hardship on the road." Jeyne was trying to toughen up, he had noticed, but life at the Wall was hard for even the sturdiest of men.

Still, he kept weighing the options: the Castle or the road; the black brothers and the Wall and anything that lay beyond, or the dangers of the road to a possibly safer place. He'd asked Sam to give him daily updates on the Queen's health, to maybe discern a pattern or find traces of her growing strength. He didn't _want_ to send her away; she was family now, after all, but as Maester Aemon had explained to him – the safest place for a baby is inside its mother's womb – and with each passing day he realised the best time for her to leave was before she would enter her birthing bed but also before she would become too big and burdened with the babe to travel.

There was a knock on the door and Sam stood to answer it immediately, probably glad of something to do in the ominously silent spells Jon knew he was wont to drop.

"A raven came, my Lord," Pyp said and Jon looked up to see his two friends standing together in the doorway. Pyp handed the small roll of parchment to Sam and inclined his head briefly before retreating, his cloak wrapped about him as he strode out into the cold again. Sam turned the parchment over to show the seal as he handed it to Jon. It was a message from the ranging party he had sent out weeks ago, and his heart jumped. These were their first words finally placed in his hands, and he cracked the seal impatiently. When he was done reading the three hastily scribbled lines he folded the parchment and stood up. He felt nauseous.

"The decision has been made for us," he said and Sam raised his eyebrows, spluttering to say something but Jon went on. "We need to move the Queen, and fast. Start preparing – horses, a wagon, supplies for weeks. Ser Brynden leaves tomorrow night or the night after at the latest." He had already stepped away from the desk to grab his cloak from a peg on the wall, giving Sam his instructions while he was fastening the clasp in one practised motion, pulling on his gloves after adjusting Longclaw on his hip. Then he turned to look at his steward and friend. "And you, Sam," he said solemnly. "You're going too."

Jon could see the conflict building behind Sam's eyes, could tell he wanted to protest, could almost see the _but_ forming on his lips. It never came, though, as Sam was wise enough to understand that if the Queen had to go, there was no one but him who could possibly aid her if she went into labour before they reached their destination. Jon was well aware Sam had no experience delivering babies whatsoever, but the only other option was Maester Aemon, who was too old and frail to survive outside Castle Black, and besides, Jon would bet his beloved old sable cloak that Sam had read about such matters in one of his precious books.

"There's no point in arguing," Jon drove the issue home, and Sam hung his head.

"Where do we go?" he asked then, looking up again. And then, "and why?" He seized Jon's arm, stopping him from opening the door and stepping outside. "You've got to tell me, Jon," he urged, fear in his eyes. "What's in that letter?"

Jon gave him a long hard stare before answering, thinking of the plan that he had been mulling over in his mind ever since Jeyne and the Blackfish had arrived. He turned away from the door and sighed. "Mance Rayder is marching south," he said at last and Sam's eyes went impossibly wider. "The size of his host is incredible, or so the Halfhand tells me." Jon lifted the hand still clutching the message, the parchment tattered and dark. "The wildlings will be upon us any day now, Sam, and Robb's heir cannot be around when that happens." He took a deep breath, then put his arm around Sam's shoulders.

"You and Ser Brynden will travel to the Shadow Tower," he said in a low voice, drawing out the words so Sam would catch every last detail. "From there you'll make for the coast and sail for Bear Island. The women of House Mormont are fierce both in battle as well as the birthing bed. They'll help deliver the baby if you'll make it in time, and they'll protect it with their lives." He smiled, realising Sam needed reassurance above all. "Maege Mormont was on Robb's war council," he said. "Dacey Mormont was in Robb's personal guard. I don't know if they were at the Twins, but House Mormont will always be loyal to the King in the North." Now that he had spoken the words out loud, had unfolded his plan to someone other than himself, he actually truly believed it could work.

**DACEY**

Of course it would have been better if they had gotten a decent night's rest. They had ridden hard all night, skirting the forest as much as they dared just so they could stay on passable roads, especially with Smalljon threatening to tumble off his horse, worn down by pain and fatigue. Robb had dark smudges under his eyes, Dacey noticed once the early sun started to rise, throwing dappled light between the trees, but he pressed on without a word, adamant to put as many miles between them and the Twins as possible. She said nothing, remained close to Smalljon, keeping a careful eye on him as he struggled along, and decided that although it had been a long time since she'd felt so completely exhausted, she would much rather have this grim, relentless Robb over the desolate, defeated one of the Wilford. There was an unexpected strength about him now that she had last seen in him while riding for the wedding at the Twins, when their true objective had been to march back North to retake Winterfell from the Ironborn turncloak, and Dacey knew she would follow her King to the deepest of the seven hells because of it.

To her left, Smalljon swayed dangerously in his saddle and she knew then that if not for herself, she had to urge Robb to halt for Jon's sake and so she steadied the huge man until she felt safe he wouldn't fall, then trotted her horse up to where Robb was riding in front of them.

"Robb," she said, nothing but a breathed hiss as she knew how speech travelled far in the quiet hours of the early dawn. "Robb," she repeated, coming up beside him and brushing his shoulder. He twisted in his saddle as if burned by fire, flinching away from her touch, his eyes deep and red rimmed, his mouth set in angry determination. "Robb," she said a third time, shocked by what she was seeing, realisation suddenly dawning on her. "Come back to me," she urged, reaching for the reins and bringing Robb's horse to a stop. Behind them, Smalljon's destrier got the hint and halted of its own accord.

"Robb," she said again, shaking his arm, bringing her horse in as close as possible. "We're going to stop here. Jon's falling off."

Robb wheeled his horse about and on seeing Jon slumped in his seat, hanging on by sheer willpower, he finally seemed to snap out of his trance, his features going slack, and Dacey could hear him release a deep shuddering breath.

"There's an overhang of sorts about a mile to the west there," Robb pointed along a path that branched off into the forest. Dacey opened her mouth to say something but Robb cut her off with a pointed, dark stare and she snapped her mouth shut again, deciding to follow him into the gloom of the trees, leaving the ever-growing morning brightness of the road behind, the reins of Smalljon's horse in her hand.

"What's he up to?" Jon's voice came, ragged and exhausted. "He can't know."

Dacey shrugged, thinking now was as good a time as any to share her suspicions.

"I think he's warging," she muttered quietly, hoping Robb couldn't hear. Jon's head twisted towards her once he understood what she was truly saying, eyes wide. "And he's doing it more and more."

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A/N: In answer to a few comments/PMs I received, I feel the need to point out that, even though with this story I am trying really hard to stick to the events as they happened in asoiaf as much as possible, there are a few significant changes I made. The most important of them is the fact I made Jon Lord Commander well before he got that title in the books. His ranging mission beyond the Wall and his encounter with Ygritte and Mance as a result of that never happened. In fact, the Halfhand is sent ranging on Jon's command, and he finds Mance's host and tells Jon about it. Also, I like to point out that Stannis Baratheon didn't sail for the Wall until after the RW happened, and arrived there when the battle at the Wall was in full swing. That is all still to come. Hope this explains my plot lines a bit more. -WW


	9. Chapter 9

A/N-1: First of all, my apologies for the delay. It's been the summer months and I was traveling more than writing, so thank you for bearing with me on that account. Now that that time of the year is gone again, I'll most likely go back to a more rigorous posting schedule. Anyway, here's chapter nine, let me know what you think.

A/N-2: Also, if you don't find (parts of) this story good (enough) it's obviously more than okay to let me know, but an explanation of why you feel this way would be appreciated instead of just dumping your unsalted words on me. Thank you.

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**ROBB**

Unlike other early mornings, when it was usually a stray animal that wandered into their small, makeshift camp or a strange sound that was too near to be comfortable and caused him to sit up with a start, this time Robb woke slowly – feeling like he was trying to swim to the surface of a deep, dark lake with a weight tied to his legs; his heart pounding, sweat on his brow.

When he opened his eyes he noticed it was still early, the sky a dark grey beyond the treetops that crowded his vision. He slowly grew aware of the rest of his body, his arms and legs heavy and tingling, his wounds not so painful for once. Then he realised that _other_ part of his body, hot and heavy, trapped in leathers and linens, and he blushed in spite of the cold and the fact it was too dark for anyone to see. Another second and his dream came rushing back to him, causing him to turn on his stomach, pressing down, trying to recall how long ago it was for him to wake in such a state. The woman in his dreams was faceless, he remembered – a vision like the ones he had had so many times before when life was still bearable despite the cruel changes; when guilt was limited to having been unable to stop his father's death or save his long lost sisters.

They had been travelling for days now, nearing Flint's Finger, the cold and exhaustion a permanent fixture in their bones and their souls, keeping an effective watch over each other an ever-increasing problem. He knew Smalljon was sitting a few feet away, probably fighting sleep or already nodding off, and Robb was grateful for another night without incident. To his left, Dacey muttered something unintelligible as she slept and he turned his head to watch her sleeping form. Had it been Dacey he dreamed of, he asked himself, and the thought filled him with a whole new sense of guilt because shouldn't he be having these dreams about Jeyne? He thought about it for a while as he lay listening to the howling of a wolf far off in the distance, a sound that soothed him and somehow kept him sane and strangely driven.

Dacey's face was soft in the shafts of light that slowly started to fall through the treetops, giving it the look of silk or satin, and Robb found himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch her, his fingers itching with it, a fresh surge of blood going south. He turned on his other side, his heavy fur cloak rustling, causing Smalljon to stir and cough and Robb fell silent – closing his eyes, focusing on the heavy throb of blood in his veins.

Dacey muttered again and Robb forced himself to think of Jeyne; almost-forgotten images of his Queen filtering in and out, her hair a honey-gold tumble of curls against the soft, smooth marble of her back as he held her hips and lost himself inside of her.

Jeyne had been a timid, tender creature when he had first met her, soft-spoken and courteous, thoughtful and caring. Over time he found out there were more layers to his wife; wilder, saucier ones he uncovered when he was alone with her at night, when the war was held at bay by the stone walls of Riverrun and they could come together in a way that had nothing to do with courtesy or honour.

He swallowed and pushed his fist against his teeth, realisation dawning that he _wanted_ again. It had been gone from his existence ever since he'd woken up after the Twins and he had never really given it much thought again. He didn't miss it, didn't want it; told himself it was for people better than him. Once he got lost in it again he knew it would feel too good, and feeling good was not something he thought he deserved after surviving the massacre at the Twins; so he had decided to dismiss it from his mind.

Until now, that was. Because while he could probably dismiss the familiar, sweet craving to all seven hells and back, his body acted with a mind of its own and the insistent urge wasn't going anywhere.

Robb chanced a quick glance across his shoulder again, noticed how the camp was still quiet and Dacey was still asleep. He tried to recall the woman of his dreams, tried to remember if it had been Jeyne – because it _should_ have been Jeyne, and felt almost embarrassed that he couldn't bring the image back, couldn't answer the question. He sighed and turned onto his back, shivering with the cold that was steadily seeping into his bones now that they were going further and further north, resigning himself to overtight breeches and a long wait.

Dacey had been so close to him these past moons, had taken care of him when he was nothing but a living corpse; cleaning the blood and the guts and the vomit. She had sung to him – soft and a little unsteady – during the two or three nights when he'd refused the Maester's milk and he had come so close to death. If he shut his eyes he could still feel her fingers in his hair, brushing the tangle of curls from his face, muttering silly encouragements under her breath, her hand clasped around his all through the night.

She had shared stories of Bear Island with him when he was well enough to be awake longer and lie bored in his bedroom at the Wilford. The first of those stories she had told him standing near the foot of his bed. After a few evenings she had sat down on the edge of the mattress and in the end she would sit next to him against the headboard, knees drawn up under her chin, her eyes soft and distant as she regaled him with tales of the Mormonts – her family and her house – the people who taught her to fight and care.

He thought back to the handful of moments when she had touched him in a way she shouldn't have, thought back to the night he had been inside the creature again, how he had woken up in her arms with his jerkin undone and her hand curled around his laces. He'd been much too shaken by his dream to do more than stare at Dacey a little funnily and move away from her to go and ensure their safety, but now that he had some quiet, secret time to give the episode more thought he understood what had actually transpired between them. What had been building between them ever since he could sit up and appreciate another person's presence again. What he knew about Dacey all along but had never _ever_ acknowledged – not before the Twins, and certainly not after.

Dacey had been the only woman in his Thirty, her position undisputed among his guard but sometimes frowned upon by others, his older Bannermen, his soldiers, people who didn't know her – or _him_ for that matter. He had never gone through the trouble of explaining his choice to anyone, letting her courage and skill as a warrior speak for itself; but he had also never dared to admit to himself that there might be more to her appointment than just her prowess on the battlefield.

He had pushed the thoughts away even then, even before Jeyne; had kept them hidden so deep within, conjuring them up from the deepest, darkest corners of his memory only in the dead of night when he was sure he was alone in his tent, and even then he only briefly examined them – too embarrassed by what they truly meant. It was something he had barely any experience with and which would probably cloud his vision and strategics when he all he wanted was to avenge his father; when all he wanted was the war and the fighting to be on his mind. He'd left his feelings for Dacey Mormont alone most of the time, and then Jeyne happened and soon after everything spun out of his control – if it hadn't already.

Next to him, Dacey began to stir and he quickly closed his eyes again, feeling ridiculously caught out, jamming a hand against the front of his breeches, allowing himself a sliver of relief.

"Maybe today we'll reach the Finger," he heard her voice a second later, raspy from sleep, Smalljon's voice right behind it humming his agreement. "Your Grace," came Dacey's voice again and Robb winced inwardly at the title as he felt her hand at his shoulder, causing him to sit up with a jerk, as if she could sense his thoughts and his actions – minute as they had been – simply by touching his skin. "Easy…" she soothed as she watched him bolt upright, his face contorting in rapidly returning pain now that the haze of his arousal was wearing off.

"Let's hope we'll find passage," he threw in, hoping to sound casual enough to deflect attention, stumbling to his feet and a little away from the others, trying to find a secluded spot to relieve himself, realising it was going to be a bit of a problem this time. He disappeared behind a tree as he heard Smalljon list their possibilities if no ship would be sailing from the Finger, neither one of them sounding too tempting, least of all riding all the way north to Deepwood Motte. As he laced up again, thankful that it wasn't the hassle it had sometimes been when he was younger, he was about to turn and walk back to his companions when he felt the cold steel of a blade at his throat. Before he could say or do anything, he heard the ugly rasp of a man's voice close behind him, could smell the sour stink of cheap wine on his breath as he spoke, and Robb knew there was no way he could go for his own sword, not even while his hand was already hovering close to the hilt.

"Walk back to your companions, _Your Grace_," the voice, laced with sarcasm, ordered curtly, "real nice and easy or I'll slit your right royal throat."

**SAM**

He never thought Jeyne would be able to face the cold and the hardship of the long road to the Shadow Tower, but he had to hand it to her. She hadn't complained once during the three days they'd been on the road now, and even though she had been feeling unwell, still suffering from a persisting fever, Queen Jeyne carried herself with the poise that came with the title. The trek to the Shadow Tower would take them about two weeks, he figured, with the slow pace they were setting, the cart that carried the Queen pulled by oxen, not horses. The cold was bitter and biting and even Sam, in his Night's Watch garb, wondered if they wouldn't freeze to death before they reached the shore.

Jon had given him some handwritten instructions right upon their departure, an uncharacteristically secretive affair in the wolf hour of the night with Ser Brynden bringing the Queen out in a thick, fur-lined, hooded cloak, her swollen belly well hidden underneath the many layers of the garment – making her as comfortable as possible in her covered cart. Ghost had followed their progress for the first two days before leaving them alone somewhere during the third night – his muzzle pushed against Sam's arm as if to bid him safe travels – making the latter feel a lot less safe once the beast had gone back towards Castle Black.

The letter Jon had given him taught Sam about the Wildlings that would be clamouring at the gate before long and about the rumours that Stannis Baratheon had been spotted sailing north along the east coast with a massive host. That information especially made Sam shiver, for he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Baratheon heir to the Iron Throne would never accept the widowed Queen of the King in the North, let alone their possible heir. Jeyne had never been quite safe among the Black Brothers, even if they managed to keep her name and title a secret as best as they could; it would be worthless and forfeit if Stannis ever caught wind of her presence in the castle.

Sam did not know anything about Bear Island apart from the few things his previous commander had shared with him and what he'd read. He knew the island was almost like a matriarchal community, a place where conditions were such that women were treated equal to men by some sort of unspoken code, and that the leader of the most important house of Mormont was the Commander's sister, Maege, a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and an important voice on Robb Stark's war council.

Her daughter Dacey Jon had portrayed as a tall, formidable woman who had been swinging a morning star with scary precision ever since the tender age of nine. Sam shivered again at the thought of such a woman, and when Jon described her with some more detail, his memory trying to go back to the last time the Mormonts had visited Winterfell and to the way she had decimated Jon and Robb _and_ the Greyjoy ward in the practice yard, Sam swore he could see the young Commander shudder a little, too.

"She was taller than Robb," Jon recalled, "by at least five inches the last time she came to Winterfell. She dressed like a man in breeches and leathers, her cloak as heavy as yours and mine, and she was a good ten years older than us. Robb always admired her, or so he told me, and I wasn't surprised to learn later on that she was appointed to his Thirty. I think we can safely assume she was with him at the Twins, and thus slaughtered along with my brother, but her house is loyal to the Starks – there's no doubt in my mind."

Sam wasn't too sure he wanted to go to an island where women, highly proficient at using deadly weapons, were in charge; but Jon had ordered him to take Queen Jeyne there and so he would, reminding himself he'd be trembling even harder at the prospect of having to deliver the royal baby himself.

"Never seen or heard so many wolves in my life," Ser Brynden muttered as Sam rode up to him, checking behind him every other minute to make sure they were still the only ones on the road. "It's uncanny."

Sam had to agree, the old knight made a valid point. Quite against the Lord Commander's instructions they kept a fire in the camp every night to ward off the wolves trailing in packs along the perimeter of the forest that lined the road to the west. He thought of Ghost, who had stayed with them for a few days, making Sam wonder about the truth in this old form of northern magic he'd read about – this warging – thinking if Jon wanted to make certain they were all right. He also asked himself if the wolves were only coming closer now because of the fact Ghost had returned to his master again, giving his smaller cousins free range. He shuddered some more, asking himself if he wouldn't rather help deliver a baby than encounter a pack of ferocious wolves. It was biting cold, Winter had truly come, to use the Stark words, and Sam knew that the wolves as well needed to get sustenance now wherever they could get it. They all knew that only the fire would keep them safe.

"I take it there are no wolves in the Riverlands?" Sam ventured, still a little daunted by the gruffness of the massive Tully knight.

"I served in the Vale for a long time," the old man answered, "but no, wolves are uncommon south of the Neck." He was silent for a bit and Sam could tell he was thinking of something so he held his tongue and waited for the knight to speak again. "Or maybe I should say they _were_ uncommon," Ser Brynden continued in the end and he gave Sam a curious look. "My great-nephew had a direwolf just like the Lord Commander's, but bigger still and of a different hue."

Sam nodded, he had heard about the beast that had always accompanied Robb Stark into battle.

"His name was Grey Wind, and Robb was truly the only one who could control him at all." Brynden Tully looked ahead again, while Sam threw another furtive glance across his shoulder, the road still as empty as ever. "I've seen them fight together," the old man continued, "something to behold, I tell you." There was genuine awe in the Blackfish' eyes and Sam was both relieved and disappointed he had never seen the biggest direwolf of the famed Stark pack. "He was killed at the Twins as well," the knight spoke once more, "along with his master, and since then more and more wolves have been seen coming south, howling at night, prowling the Riverlands – almost as if they mean to take the West and the Twins and the Lannister Rock themselves."

Sam smiled at that, remembering Jon's barely concealed grief after he had brought him the news of his brother's murder, of how he had muttered curses under his breath, thinking Sam couldn't hear them, swearing he'd tear down the Frey Keep with his bare hands, or how he wished to set a snarling pack of direwolves on Tywin Lannister himself.

"They do howl at night as if they are out on revenge," Sam said and Ser Brynden gave him an uncharacteristic smile.

"The entire north is out on revenge, boy," he replied. "Robb was a good man, by the Gods; and I know he tried. I saw him; I saw his struggle; he had enemies everywhere and I don't think he ever lost faith, maybe until the very last end. Walder Frey –" The old man looked away suddenly, unable to continue, so Sam muttered something unintelligible as he allowed his horse to fall back. He realised once again that, even though he had never met Robb Stark, he could gather from what the Lord Commander and this seasoned, old knight had told him, the boy they called the Young Wolf must have been a natural, inspiring leader to say the least.

"Sam." His thoughts were interrupted when the Queen stuck her head around the curtain of the small covered cart, calling his name.

"Your Grace?" He wheeled his horse about and rode so that they could speak easily.

"I may have to…" the young woman started, looking embarrassed, and Sam knew what was the matter straight away.

"Ser Brynden," he called out and the knight looked back instantly. "Would you stop the oxen?" Sam knitted his eyebrows together in a way that said it all and the old man halted the team. When the cart had stopped completely Jeyne climbed out of it, clutching a massive fur-lined cloak around her shoulders that brushed the snow-covered earth as she made her way to a forlorn bit of undergrowth, allowing Sam to stand guard.

The apology was right there on her lips the second she emerged, but Sam quickly raised his hand, indicating no apology was necessary – he had read about this awkward indisposition related to being with child and as he was under strict instructions to keep the Queen as comfortable as he could, he would not hear of an apology for something she could not help.

As she climbed back into the cart with some difficulty, hindered mostly by the cloak she tried holding together, Sam helped her up and in and averted his eyes as she settled in her seat again. "Maybe Your Grace shouldn't use that cloak…" Sam began but the Blackfish gave a loud cough that startled him and gave Jeyne enough time to pull the little curtain.

As the oxen continued their slow but steady trek again, Ser Brynden shook his head.

"That is her late husband's cloak, master Tarly," he explained and Sam felt like he could kick himself. "It is the one I grabbed when I smuggled her out of of RIverrun, and she has clung to it ever since. Apart from the babe growing inside of her, it might well be the only thing she has left of Robb Stark."

**DACEY**

"Jon," Dacey hissed as quietly as she could, the air sliding out between her gritted teeth and Smalljon gave her a brief look. His hand was on his sword even before he could put two and two together, instinct telling him something was wrong and to pull his blade from its sheath. Dacey stepped behind her horse and slid her axe from the straps on her saddle, holding it as if she was ready to strike a blow at any time.

"Don't even think about it," a rasping voice came from between the trees, and the two warriors exchanged a quick look, lowering their weapons when they saw Robb stepping into the clearance, the point of an old and rusty but still very effective blade held against the back of his neck. "Drop those weapons," the man ordered, carefully circling his charge but keeping to the shadows of the large trees on the edge of the clearance, still resting the tip of his blade against Robb's throat with sickening precision.

Dacey dropped the axe and drew her sword to put it on the ground as well, hoping to placate the man with the gesture – conveniently forgetting to remove the dagger at her belt, which she had twisted to her back when she'd stepped aside to get her axe. Next to her Smalljon laid his broadsword on the mossy ground as well, moving away from it and closer to a massive, fallen branch, Dacey noticed.

"That's better," the man said and Dacey watched a small trickle of blood disappear into the furs around Robb's shoulders. She locked her eyes with his and to her satisfaction she only saw determination there, no fear. If this was caused by the fact that at times Robb still felt he didn't have a lot to live for, she couldn't tell, but for now it left him fearless and brave and ready to fight. She gave him the barest of nods and shivered when she saw a ruthless glitter in his cold, blue eyes.

"Now," the man growled, stepping out of the shadow of the trees, and Dacey stared at him; a Frey soldier, his ugly, tattered skullcap a little askew on his head. "Isn't this a stroke of luck?" He sneered and pushed his sword even tighter against Robb's skin, nicking it deeper, causing more blood to flow. Dacey balled her hands into fists to stop herself from giving in to the urge to fight the intruder, fully aware this would most likely cause more harm than good. They had to wait for a diversion, as small as they could come, before they could attack and disarm him without endangering Robb any further. The Frey soldier chuckled as he looked at the three of them, one by one. "The King in the North taking a piss right under my nose?" Dacey watched with disgust as spittle flew out of his mouth with the ugly rasp of his laughter, tightening her fists, steadily ignoring Smalljon's warning stares to her left.

"You," the man jerked his chin at Dacey, "untie that horse."

"Which one?" she stalled, and Robb's eyes widened fractionally.

"I don't bleeding care," the man answered. "Don't try to be clever with me, you northern whore. Now untie that horse."

Dacey exchanged a quick glance with Smalljon before loosening the reins of one of their horses from the tree it stood tied to, stepping away once her task was done.

"Turn around," he told Robb and pushed his shoulder hard. Robb winced, it was the wrong shoulder, but he managed to stay on his feet and the man pointed at the length of rope that was hanging from the saddle on Smalljon's horse. "You," he motioned for Dacey again, "tie up your _King_." Dacey reached for the rope but probably moved a little too quickly to the man's liking and he pushed the blade still deeper into Robb's neck, opening the wound for real this time.

"You might want to be careful with my throat," Robb bit out. "I think Walder Frey might like to slit it himself." Robb stepped away from the steel, challenging the soldier to cut him again. "I do not think he'd like it if you deny him that opportunity. From what I could tell, the man is unable to handle a slight."

"Old man Frey wants you dead, is all," the soldier answered and pushed the blade in again. "I'm going to put you on a horse and ride you back to the Twins and hand you over so I get an even better reward, but if you put up a fight I will kill you in the blink of an eye. Now tie him up!"

Dacey moved in and tied Robb's hands behind his back, careful not to pull the rope too tightly, hoping to leave it wide enough for him to wriggle free. From the corner of her eye she could see the wound in Robb's neck, a nasty cut that had gone deeper than she'd expected, the fur just below drenched in blood already.

"Tighter," the Frey soldier commanded, startling her, stepping closer to inspect her work. "I should have asked him, as you're doing a piss poor job of it. I might have to kill you as well."

Dacey did as she was told the second she saw the man's sword go back to the wound in Robb's neck, scared he would cut it open for real if she angered him any further.

"You surround yourself with poor excuses of women, _Your Grace_," the man continued, and Dacey knew to be quiet, to allow the man his rant as it would probably cause him to get off his guard sooner rather than later. "Your Lady Mother's throat was so easily slit," he rasped and laughed and Dacey was amazed by the fact his words didn't elicit one single reaction from Robb, "as was your wife's, the minute she was found – just outside of Riverrun." Spittle glistened again on the man's lips as he spoke the damning words before he cast a sneer in Dacey's direction. "I'm certain this one's just as simple to kill."

Whereas Dacey inwardly shuddered with the news that Queen Jeyne had been murdered, Robb was still motionless, his body rigid, eyes cold.

_He's waiting for a chance to escape_, Dacey thought and it caused her to focus even more on the position of the man's hands and his sword and the dagger she knew was waiting for her on her back. From the corner of her eyes she watched Jon move minutely closer to the branch by his feet, not doubting for a single second he could heft it and use it to bash the man's skull in.

"You flatter yourself," Dacey couldn't help but challenge the man and she wondered if it was the merest hint of a smile she saw flitting across Robb's face. "Here's your horse."

She clapped the beast on its flank and it stepped in between her and Robb's assailant, causing him to move back temporarily, the very thing Smalljon had been waiting for as he bent down and lifted the enormous branch over his head. Dacey smacked the horse's flank again with one hand and drew her dagger with the other, partly cutting the rope around Robb's wrists before he had to duck down as Smalljon took a swing at the Frey soldier once the horse was gone.

The man was quicker than either one of them had expected, though, and Dacey watched his hand land in Robb's cloak, pulling him flush as he wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pushing the blade in deep, much and more blood coming out this time, and she knew Jon had seen it too. She pulled back, keeping the dagger out of harm's way and watched how Robb was roughly pulled backwards to the horse that was now behind them, a choking arm around his neck preventing him from putting up a fight now his hands were untied again, blood running and covering the man's arm and sword and dirty tunic.

"Fools!" he shouted but there was no time for more as a loud crack to their right was followed by a flash of fur and a growl so wild that even Dacey stepped back in fear, averting her face to prevent dirt and sand to fly into her eyes, and when she looked again the Frey soldier's throat was a huge gaping mess of pulsing blood and ripped sinews; his body being dragged along the ground by a direwolf's red-stained muzzle. The beast let go of the ravaged corpse, dropping it carelessly to bleed out, the forceful spray of blood from the Frey's neck steadily diminishing to a pathetic trickle.

It had all gone so fast that Dacey realised Smalljon was still holding the huge branch overhead, lowering it only when the wolf returned to where Robb was trying to get up only to fall to his knees again as he wrapped his arms around its neck, burying his face in the thick, grey fur.

"He survived," she could hear a disbelieving Smalljon say to her left and she smiled knowingly, thinking how she had travelled the last few days watching her king slide in and out of his warging state; wondering how long it would take for Robb and Grey Wind to be reunited again.


End file.
